


Thawing Out

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, Spy drama, complete and total au, saving Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-17 00:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 91,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15449202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: Not long after the events of The Avengers, the Winter Soldier returns with a vengeance. SHIELD, fully aware there is no better expert than Steve Rogers, sends him to neutralise the threat—but the Winter Soldier has a few tricks up his sleeve, and Steve doesn't walk away from their encounter unscathed. His future suddenly uncertain as his past comes back to haunt him, he must decide to come out of the ice once and for all if he is to have any hope of saving his friend...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in 2012, when Winter Soldier was still over a year away, and finished it literally the afternoon the movie premiered. At the time, it was spec fic (not least because Emily Van Camp had not been cast when I started, and thus the Sharon Carter character has a different name, job, and actress!) and is now firmly AU. The readers of the fic at the time have requested that I publish it here for their ease of reading, and so I have done so.

Steve slid into the chair, his usual one halfway down the glossy table. Nodding at Clint, who was slouched in a chair across from him, he took in the other empty seats. Unusual, since Doctor Banner, at least, made a point of being early to these things. “Where is everyone?”

Barton shrugged. “But last I heard, the Doc had gone back to India on a medical mission or something.”

“Where’s Agent Romanoff?”

“San Francisco.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“As always, Cap” - the archer leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles – “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

Steve let one corner of his mouth turn up in case that was supposed to be a joke. It was hard to tell with Agent Barton.

There was a noise like a shot as Nick Fury knocked the conference room door open, striding into the room with his coat streaming behind him. “He doesn’t know either. Unless they’ve been misusing resources and ignoring protocol again.” He fixed his eye on Clint, who held up both hands and responded easily.

“I plead the Fifth.”

“If you’re smart, which I have my doubts about, you won’t share this information with her.” Fury tossed the two folders he was carrying on the table and clasped his hands behind him. “Unless you want all hell to break loose, I’d seriously advise against it.”

“It might be fun,” Barton started, but Fury broke him off. “Not this time. This is regarding the Winter Soldier.”

Steve saw Barton’s jaw clench, just slightly, as he looked between the two men for more information. None was forthcoming. “Is that a name I should know?” he asked, finally, “because it means nothing.”

Director Fury ignored him, shooting a question at Barton. “What do you know about him?”

“Nothing. Just what she told me.”

“If she’s told you even half of what she knows, you can see the problem.”

Another eye conversation ensued, Fury beaming something meaningfully at Clint’s glower. Steve wondered tiredly if this was how SHIELD kept its secrets – never saying them out loud – before breaking in. “Are you talking about Agent Romanoff? Because she doesn’t tell me anything. I still don’t know what’s going on here.”

Fury broke his gaze and turned to look at Cap. “The Winter Soldier, Captain, is a Soviet assassin. He’s been dormant a long time, but we’ve recently received information that he’s…re-emerged.” He slid one of the folders across the table, pictures trailing out as it moved towards Steve. Gingerly picking one up by the corner, Steve blanched at the image of gore spread around a dead body. He had seen worse in the war, but not much, and not often. “Not the most subtle of killers,” Fury added dryly. “We want the two of you to go after him.”

“Where is he?” Barton asked, crossing his arms.

“Where else?” Fury responded cryptically, sliding the other folder toward the agent. As Clint began to leaf through it, Steve found space to make an objection. “Just the two of us? Not the Avengers?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?” Steve interrupted.

Fury answered with a glare. “Not that I have to explain myself to you, but one assassin doesn’t really warrant calling Thor back from off planet – much less hauling Stark out of his own rear end.”

Cap pushed back from the table and stood as he spoke. “Then, respectfully, I can’t take this mission. You know I’m not one of your agents, Fury. I don’t support SHIELD activities.”

Barton’s eyebrows flickered up, but he kept reading through the packet. Fury was inscrutable. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

“Less respectfully, then.” Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Steve enunciated slowly. “You don’t give me orders.”

“Just tell him.” Steve turned to look at Barton, who was still seemingly engrossed in the briefing. “He won’t agree unless you tell him why. He’ll find out sooner or later.”

Fury appeared to relent, slowly unfolding his arms and resting his fingertips on the table. From his bent position, he gestured with on hand towards the chair Steve had just vacated. “You may want to sit down.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” 

“Suit yourself.” Steve would have called what Fury did next a sigh, if he thought the director could be that human. “The reason,” Fury said soberly, “we need you on this mission is that last we knew, the Winter Soldier’s real name was James Buchanan Barnes.”

He did not pass out, did not lose consciousness for one second, but he did sit heavily in the chair Hawkeye kicked over to him in the split second he wobbled on his feet. Hands dangling at his sides, Steve tried to wrap his brain around what Fury had said. “Bucky’s alive? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Sort of,” Barton snorted. Fury shot him a glare. “No. What I’m saying is that it’s _possible_ that someone who was, _at one time_ , Bucky, _may_ be alive. That’s what we need you to figure out.”

Steve put his elbows on the arms of the chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “But he fell, I watched him – it was thousands of feet, I don’t think _I_ could have survived it.”

“Who said anything about surviving?” Barton murmured, only to have Fury turn on him. He squared his shoulders defensively as he continued. “You know as well as I do, Director, what the Winter Soldier is like. You can’t call what they made of him surviving.”

“We don’t need your interpretation of someone else’s experience, Agent Barton. It’s just not helpful.”

“No, it is.” Steve lifted his head. “You’re saying somebody did something to him, something that turned him into something – someone – different.”

“They did a lot of that in Russia, for a time,” Fury allowed with a glance at Clint.

Getting to his feet, Cap began to pace. “See, _that_ makes sense. More sense than that Bucky could do these things.” He glanced at the photos again, then flipped them over firmly. “No way, ever, Bucky would do that.”

“Maybe not,” Clint said, “but this is not your friend, Captain. You can’t go thinking it is. This guy will kill you as soon as look at you, after he stabs you in the back. That’s what happens when they get in your head.”

It was nearly the longest speech Steve had ever heard Agent Barton make, and the only one even slightly referencing the circumstances of their meeting. He had never claimed to be good at picking up what people weren’t saying, but Steve could hear the bitterness behind the quiet tone. He nodded an acknowledgement. “I understand that. But sometimes you can get the old guy back, right?”

Barton looked as though he thought the better of saying something, watching Fury from the corner of his eye. Turning so his patch was toward the archer, Fury directed his attention to Steve. “Find him, and eliminate the threat. I don’t care how you do it.” He spun to fix his gaze on Hawkeye. “However you can do it.”

“You’re fooling yourself to think-”

“Of all of us here, Agent Barton, I think you’re the one who should most understand the value of a second chance.”

Steve felt the exchange hang in the air, heavy with a meaning he didn’t quite understand. Barton hadn’t needed a second chance; he had been possessed and forgiven. These people – even when they were speaking, they kept secrets. It hadn’t been like that in the Army. At least, if secrets were kept, they weren’t kept from people who needed to know them. “So,” he said, trying to get back to the mission, “we go in, rescue Bucky if we can, bring him back here.”

“Or,” Barton growled, “we go in, kill him before he kills us, and get out without too much damage.”

Cap started to object, but Fury cut them both off. “Neither plan. There’s something else you need to know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which We Meet Someone Old, and Someone New

Agent Carter gingerly poked her tongue out the side of her mouth, feeling out the gash on her lower lip. It was fairly large, but the blood had already clotted and she was hopeful it wouldn’t swell up too badly. There was nothing worse than parlay with a supervillian when you couldn’t speak around a fat lip. That settled, she shook her dark hair out of her face and began to take stock of her surroundings. She was tied to a chair – no, chained, pity – in a room so small as to be called a closet, which didn’t leave any too much room to maneuver. Perhaps it _was_ a closet; the walls were thin but she couldn’t hear any outside noises, and the only light was an orange-y incandescent bulb. Apart from the chair she was sitting in, the room contained nothing but a shelf-like ledge halfway up the wall, and a cockroach scuttling along the baseboard. Not a lot with which to stage a daring escape, but no doubt she’d manage something in time.

Though, if they were all as big as the man who had snatched her – and they had taken her gun – maybe it was best to wait it out, give SHIELD a little time to pull up her tracer after she didn’t check in. No doubt they were already worried about her; they would have been waiting to hear if she had got the files. She felt a fleeting regret for the mission left abandoned in Spain, but she supposed it hadn’t been her choice to leave it. Casting her admittedly fuzzy memory back, she tried to calculate how long it had been. Her captors had drugged her three distinct times, so she was probably…two hours past her rendezvous? Depending on where she had been taken, they could get here within the next twelve hours. Agent Carter settled down to wait.

Her eyes returned to the ledge curiously. It was an odd thing to have in a holding cell, and an even odder on to have in a torture chamber, if that’s what this was. Jutting out from the wall at shoulder level, it seemed tailor-made for bric-a-brac, perhaps a tasteful selection of family photos. She smiled, imagining pictures of grinning murderers and wild, bloody parties, but quickly sobered up. Maybe the drugs hadn’t worn off yet; she should know better than to treat a captive situation lightly. Her aunt would be ashamed of her. Besides, smiling stretched her lip too much.

Minutes ticked by, then an hour. She was becoming frustrated, both at the tiresome ache of her arms and shoulders taut behind her and the rudeness of whomever had kidnapped her. By now she ought to have something with which to fight back, or at the very least some understanding of the situation. She began contemplating the practicality of scraping the chair across to the doorknob, and if she could manage it quietly enough to be able to get the door open. Just as she had made up her mind to do so, it swung outward into a corridor with a loud clank. (A corridor, she could see, so it wasn’t a literal closet, and most likely underground since there was no natural light. Now she was getting somewhere!)

The man who entered was not one of the gargantuan thugs who had caught her in Spain; in point of fact she wouldn’t call him a thug at all. Tall and dark-haired with great black circles under his eyes, he reminded her of the old images of vampires – not the glamourous kind from the rubbish films, but incredibly ancient, hungry and haunted. A man like that would never follow someone else’s orders. He would be cruel, yes, and malicious, but there was too much intelligence behind his otherwise blank eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken, this man was the one at the back of her present situation. With that in mind, she sized him up, mentally scrolling through her list marked “Threats”. His features made no matches. Neither did his methods.

Watching him saunter into the room and deliberately swing his left arm up to rest on the ledge with a heavy thud, she decided that it would be best to let him make the first move. Without any information, it was far better to stay quiet and learn from your opponent, rather than leaping in guns blazing.

However, such a strategy only worked when your opponent cooperated. The man did not. In fact, he did nothing but stand there, coolly appraising her. She raised her chin and stared back, not intimidated.

“You’re a quiet one,” he said finally. “You didn’t even thing of trying to escape?”

Allowing herself a non-committal smile, she didn’t respond. This seemed to amuse him. “Aren’t you a snooty thing? Won’t get off your high horse to talk to me? Runs in the family, I guess.” He rubbed his chin with his right hand, making a metallic screech she found eerie. “I know your aunt,” he continued. “Did she ever mention me?”

She blinked, unwilling to let Aunt Peg be a topic of conversation. Still, she did wonder who had leaked that information – it wasn’t as if they looked alike, and ‘Carter’ was not an uncommon last name.

“It’s no use pretending, Agent Carter. I’ve been around the block a few times in the last sixty years. Your poker face isn’t good enough to fool me.” He laughed at that, his eyes crinkling up into lines that told her he had once been accustomed to smiling.  That frightened her more than anything else. “But then, mine isn’t very good either. So. Tell me about Steve Rogers, and maybe I’ll feel generous and let you go. I can let Peggy have that. I always liked her.”

“Steve Rogers?” she echoed, taken aback. “That’s what this is about? I don’t know anything about him.”

His eyes flashed, but his face went as blank as if someone had deleted his expressions. “It’s not smart to lie to me. He’s with SHIELD, you’re with SHIELD. You must know something.”

“He’s not with SHIELD. He just has one. You may want to confirm with your informants.”

She had been too glib. Her captor glared and began to move towards her angrily, but was arrested by an awkward twisting of his body back towards his left side. Growling, he returned to his former position. “Don’t play games, Agent Carter. While I may enjoy what will happen if I leave my brace, you certainly won’t. Let’s go back. Tell me about Steve Rogers.”

She sighed heavily, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “If you’re asking about him, you probably know as much as I do. During the Second World War there was a classified program-”

“Damn it, I know that! He told me that himself. Where is he now?”

She looked up at him, a smart retort all ready to go, when the pieces of the puzzle fell into place around her.

The Winter Soldier.

It had to be. The screechy metal noise and the clank when he walked in – Soviet era bionic technology. The ledge – a support for his implanted gun/arm. And who else but an eighty-year-old killer could look that destroyed? She tried to keep her recognition from her face, but inwardly her mind was spinning a million kilometers an hour. What did she know about him? What could she use? It wasn’t much. The brutal assassin whose campaign of terror had been the impetus for the formation of SHIELD’s militant arm had long been believed dead. She had heard a rumor that a copycat had made an appearance, but this was no copycat. One look at him could tell you that. There had been no complete or official briefing; SHIELD knew its agents and wouldn’t give out more information than any one of them needed. She didn’t even know if he had a real name. He was, to all practical purposes, a complete cipher.

So instead of her clever response, she tried the truth. “I told you, I don’t know. He isn’t part of SHIELD and they wouldn’t make his whereabouts common knowledge if he were.”

He didn’t accept that, as she had known he wouldn’t. “So they don’t know where he is. But you. He’ll let you know where he is.”

“Why should he?”

“I told you not to play games with me.”

“Believe me, it’s the furthest thing from my mind.”

That made him laugh again, a creaky noise even more frightening with her new knowledge. “That doesn’t surprise me. Your aunt didn’t put up with anything either. I was always getting on her last nerve.” The smile disappeared. “But that was a long time ago. Now I used up all my patience. One last time, Agent Carter. Where is Steve Rogers?”

She could feel her heart beating double-time, but she tried to casually shake the hair from her face as she replied. “If you don’t think I’m playing games, then you know I don’t know. Why not let me go before someone comes looking for me and it ends badly for you?”

“Ah. Now you understand.” He strode forward, remembering this time to lift his gun arm off the ledge as he came toward her. By some miracle, she managed to keep herself from flinching as he ran his left hand over her hair, though she couldn’t stop the shudder that came with the touch of the muzzle. Taking her chin firmly in his ice-cold right hand, the Winter Soldier spoke quietly, a menace in his voice. “You may not be playing games, but I have always loved them. Why do you think I went after you of all people? I know you’re a glorified paper-pusher with no useful information. But your last name is Carter, and my old pal Steve won’t let anything happen to you if he can stop it. All this? A time killer. If someone comes looking for you, it may end badly for you. It will end badly for him. But it will be the perfect end of seventy years for me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which There is a Lot of Arguing Without Much Speaking

“Cap. Steve.”

He started awake. Barton leaned over him, bow in hand. Shaking his head to clear the snatch of a nightmare from his memory, Steve sat up and looked around the jet groggily. “We there?”

“Almost. You were pretty knocked out; thought you might need a little time to pull yourself together.”

“Thanks. I can’t seem to get used to how quiet planes are these days.”  Stretching his neck from side to side, Steve requested a status update. Barton swung around crisply and pulled over one of the briefing tablets. Holding it out to Steve, he expanded a section of the map on the screen. “They’ve pinpointed her tracer to one of these mountains outside Samara.”

“So we have to comb a whole mountain range for her?”

“Probably not. This mountain here -” he tapped twice on the screen – “is a refrigerator. We know he usually works inside, so we’ll head here first.”

Steve held up a hand. “The mountain is…a refrigerator? An icebox?”

“Yes.” Unfazed, Barton continued. “We thought we’d parachute out and continue on foot. The entrance is about here.”

Steve noted the place. “It’ll be heavily guarded. Are we going in with anyone else?”

Clint shook his head. “It probably won’t be guarded much. Assassins don’t work like that.”

“Well, you’d know better than I would.” Taking the tablet from Barton, Steve gingerly dragged a finger across the screen to get a better look at the map. “We’ll land about here?” Barton nodded, obviously having reached his word ration for the day. “So it’ll take us a good hour to reach the entrance. That seems too long. Can we get any closer?”

“ ‘Fraid not, sir, unless you feel like getting impaled,” the pilot said over his shoulder.

“Where would you pick us up?”

“About the same place.”

Steve nodded, but continued scrolling along the map. As Barton went back to his seat and continued his pre-mission weapons check, Steve held up the tablet and zoomed into a different location. “What about here?”

“No good.”

“Or here?”

“Nope.”

He continued questioning until, frustrated, the co-pilot brought a map onscreen and highlighted a brown island in the midst of green. “See there? It’s the only clear space within miles. Forget about flat; it’ll take all the luck we’ve got to pick you up without killing ourselves.”

Looking down an arrow shaft he had just finished smoothing, Clint turned his head toward Steve. “Something bothering you, Captain?”

He set the tablet beside him as he spoke, bracing his hands on his knees and leaning forward. “I don’t like the idea of having to hike an hour back after it’s over. Seems like that leaves a lot of time for something to go wrong.”

Barton still didn’t look at him. “I don’t plan on leaving anyone to follow us.”

Steve knew what that meant, coming from a master assassin, but chose to ignore the implication until absolutely necessary. “What if there’s reinforcements? Or what if someone gets hurt?”

“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have a problem carrying me over your shoulder.”

“Not if I have to carry Agent Carter, too. And definitely not if we’re bringing out Bucky.”

Clint stood again, sheathing the arrow with a sharp _snick_. “Those are big ifs.”

“In a war, you have to plan for all possible outcomes.”

Stark would have argued back, but Barton just turned away. The co-pilot’s voice broke through the tension. “We’re approaching the drop site, agent and sir. You may want to suit up.”

All these motions were familiar, and Steve did them without thinking. The straps, the buckles, pull it tight, make sure the shield is secure on the arm. How many times had he prepared for a jump in the old days, team beside him safely stowing their weapons, just as Clint was doing? Though none of them had ever had to deal with a quiver and compound bow, Bucky at least had usually managed to tuck a few grenades in his pockets…

The back of the jet whirred open, cutting off Steve’s little stroll down memory lane. It was just as well. The air current wanted to suck them both out of the plane, but Cap grabbed a strap and let Barton jump first. After a few seconds, he took a running start into the cold Russian night. The wind stung his cheeks as he fell, making him very glad it was still summer. He had heard Russian winters had stopped even Hitler.

He landed on his feet, wondering ruefully why SHIELD’s technology couldn’t extend to parachutes that didn’t jerk on deployment, and found that Barton had already unharnessed himself and stowed the wrapped-up chute under a log. At Steve’s confused expression, the agent explained. “It can be a tent and will set off a distress signal if I activate it. We don’t just dump these.”

“All right then.” So much for low-technology. As he struggled with the chute, Steve attempted to get his bearings. “Where are we headed?”

Perched on a fallen tree trunk, Barton pointed over his shoulder. “Two points southwest. We’ll have to swing a little wide. There’s a service road that cuts across the direct route.”

“Will that take much longer?” Steve asked, finally kicking his parachute to rest near Clint’s.

“Depends on how fast you move,” the other man replied before jumping off the log and disappearing into the trees.

It was not a pleasant hour. Barton sped through the woods like they were his own apartment, often going too fast for Steve to track him in the dark. He was leading them uphill; combined with the altitude and the pace, it was uncomfortable even for Steve’s superior lungs. Branches kept rearing out of the darkness to whip him in the face. But, worst of all, it wasn’t hard enough work to keep Steve from thinking – of Bucky and Peggy, the past behind, and of the Winter Soldier and Peggy’s niece, the future ahead. How did it come to this? Here he was, running over a Russian mountain on a mission to kill a master assassin and save an innocent agent, and all he could think about was the time he and Bucky had shared a cigarette and Steve had an asthma attack so bad he would have died if Bucky hadn’t clapped him on the back for a half hour.

After more time than he realized had passed, Clint pulled to a stop. “Here it is.” Steve leaned back against a tree and peered around the trunk. They were tucked away in front of a tiny clearing, just large enough for a service road to dead-end at a tall pile of dark rocks. The moonlight bounced off them, illuminating an unnatural shadow. “That’s the door?” he asked. At Barton’s nod, Steve pushed back his cowl. “Did you have a plan from here, or is that my job?”

Barton shrugged. “Get in, accomplish our objectives, get out.”

“Right.” He thought rapidly before speaking again. “We go in together. Our first job is to find Agent Carter; she’ll probably know more than we do, so she may be able to help us. If not, we get her out and you and I go looking for Bucky.”

“The Winter Soldier.”

“Yes,” he agreed, glancing back at the entrance to judge the uncovered distance.

“No. Say it.” Surprised, he looked at Clint, who had planted his feet and crossed his arms. “I can’t go in there with you until I know that you aren’t going to do something stupid to get your friend back. We are the team here. He is the enemy.”

He said it matter-of-factly, as if it was an everyday occurrence to march into battle against a friend. Steve clenched his jaw, biting back the strong desire to bark “He is my _best friend!_ ” at Clint before smacking him with the edge of the shield. Instead, he took a long breath and regarded the other man levelly before replying. “You are my soldier and I’ve got your back. But he will never be _only_ my enemy.”

“We’re a matched set, then.” Barton pulled his bow from his back and flicked it open, nocking an arrow in almost the same motion. “He will always be mine.”

“Fine.” Steve crossed his own arms, just as determined. “Then I need to know you aren’t just going to shoot him on sight. Those are not our orders.”

He didn’t know, for a breathless second, what Clint would do. The other man was angry, he knew that, more so than he had ever seen him, more than he had thought it possible for Barton to be. Then the archer slowly released the tension on the string, leaving the arrow ready but not cocked. “Your call,” he said. “But I will if he makes me.”

“Then we’ll avoid that situation,” Steve answered, relieved. Glancing back at the entrance, he pulled his cowl back over his eyes and gripped his shield. “By the way,” he threw out, casually, “just so I know what to expect – what did he do to Agent Romanoff?”

Barton’s jaw tightened. “Not my story to tell.” And with that, he ducked out of the shelter of the trees and ran towards the entrance, leaving Steve to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it sounds crazy, but there is actually a mountain outside Samara, Russia, that has a refrigerator built into it. It's from the Cold War, just in case of nuclear disaster.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Someone Gets Shot

Darting towards the door, Steve found himself casting hasty glances over his shoulder, just to make sure no one was watching them. He should have realized Barton had already scoped out the situation. As he came to a stop in the shadow of the rocks, Clint jerked his head at the large steel slab behind him. “Quicker for you,” he said, referring to the crank that no doubt leveraged the door open. Steve slung his shield onto his back and began tugging at the huge wheel, the clang of each tumbler echoing in the small space. “Nothing like making an entrance,” Clint muttered as he brought his bowstring to his mouth, eyes scanning the darkness for Steve knew not what.

“Can’t really help it.”

“Didn’t say you could.”

When he couldn’t turn the wheel anymore, Steve braced his heels and pulled the door forward with a quick jerk. It opened with a sucking noise and an unearthly groan, both of which sent a chill up Steve’s spine. The frigid air that came gusting from the crack smelled stale and old, like it would hurt you to stay too long in it. Steve took a deep breath and ducked inside the opening, leaving Clint to back in after him.

It was dark inside, but not so dark the two men were blind. A light to their left illuminated an old elevator standing open; somewhere below them bare bulbs protruding from the walls made orange splashes in the darkness. Steve noticed the color first, then saw how it bounced off the opposing wall in a shimmering wave. “It’s all metal?” he asked under his breath. Even that tiny sound echoed in the cavern, returning to them in vibratory whispers. Clint put his free hand on Steve’s arm and shook his head, then pulled a tiny flashlight from his pants pocket. Flicking it on, he held it around its top to cover the beam and pointed it at the floor. They were standing on a wide ledge; an enamel-painted railing barricaded the way straight down and traced the edge of the walkway, which appeared to slope beneath them. Steve patted his pockets before finding a pencil and crouching to set it down. It quickly rolled out of the flashlight’s reach. _Ramp_ , he thought, rising. _Clever._ He glanced at Barton, who turned off the flashlight and resumed his two-handed grasp on his bow. Steve pulled his shield in front of him and began to move forward, one hand on the railing and bending his back knee slightly to accommodate the slope.

The walkway twisted around itself on the way down, in so many huge loops that Steve lost count. The great spaces between the light bulbs were punctuated by dark gaping entryways. Coming to the first of these, they had explored to find a long hallway with one door at the end. The next was the same. After that, they just went past them, though every so often Barton would peer into one of the hallways and come back shaking his head. Steve didn’t know what he had seen or heard to make him choose one and not the other, but he trusted the archer’s senses more than his own. After about the fifth loop, he pushed back his cowl in an attempt to hear better himself, as well as utilize his perefrial vision. Still, he would often walk right past a hallway Barton darted toward.

Down and down they went, loop after loop, Steve gripping the railing, Barton following behind with his cat-like tread. Between the two of them there was hardly a noise – a necessity since, the farther they went down, the more the echoes sounded like thunder. Steve couldn’t help but be impressed. Though this hadn’t been built as a fortress, it sure didn’t make it easy for invaders. Or searchers. She could be on any of these levels, in any of these hallways, and they would never know. For that matter, so could he. Bucky. No, the Winter Soldier.

Another long trip in the dark, another long time to think. Here in this hard cold labyrinth, though, Clint’s condition pounding in his head, Steve found himself remembering the pictures from Fury’s file. At the time, he had brushed them off as impossible, but the fact remained that someone or something had butchered those people. The same twisted person had also, if his guess was right, done something horrible to Agent Romanoff. He didn’t like to think about what could have so much impact on one of the toughest people he knew that it would turn her partner into the Barton equivalent of the Hulk, but it would have had to be something significant. And this new Agent Carter – Peggy’s niece – she wasn’t anywhere near Agent Romanoff’s caliber. He remembered her picture, pulled from Barton’s briefing packet and slid across the table.

“This is her first solo mission,” Fury had said. “It was considered low risk.”

“What’s she been doing?” Barton asked.

“Paperwork, mostly. We think highly of Peggy Carter, but present company excluded, you have to prove your worth slowly here.”

Steve didn’t say anything, sitting with both elbows on the table as he examined the picture. She didn’t look like Peggy, not really, but there was the same dark hair, the same stubborn set to the lips. There was something similar about the eyes, too. Not the color – had he ever seen eyes that blue before? – but the fire and liveliness.

And now? Steve wondered as he trudged through the dark. Was she even still alive? SHIELD had thought so, but that was hours ago. Who knew what the man who had slaughtered those people, had hurt Agent Romanoff, had done to her since then?

Suddenly he stopped, throwing his arm back towards Clint. One of the hallways had a dim orange glow, visible only by its distinction from the darkness. Barton nodded, motioning for Cap to go first. He did so, noticing immediately that the light was reflecting off the walls in thin slivers, as if from the crack under the door. As the two men got closer, though, he realized that the door was actually pulled open part of the way, jutting out into the hall. Light leaked through, but it was silent within. He looked at Clint, who turned from guarding their backs and drew his bow taut. Steve brought his shield up to cover his core and gently eased the door open.

He was prepared, he thought, for anything, but he stopped short at what he actually saw. The room was bathed in the same orange glow that permeated the entire fortress, but she was a cool and elegant figure, all blue eyes and blue sweater and dark, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she looked up at him in surprise – like Snow White in the movie, but much prettier. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that she was on her feet in a corner of the room, bent over due to the chair on her back, but poised to spring at him. In fact he wasn’t quite sure that she wouldn’t do so, still, until she indicated the door with her head and mouthed “Close it.” He stepped aside to let Barton in behind him, then pulled the door to without looking at it. Clint almost banged his head on the ledge that jutted out from the wall, so Steve lowered his shield to allow him more space. “Agent Carter?” he asked in a whisper, unsure of echoes.

“Captain Rogers,” she replied, voice low and throaty. “And the famous Hawkeye, isn’t it? I didn’t expect they’d send you. Don’t worry, the room’s soundproof. No one will hear you.”

“SHIELD takes the Winter Soldier very seriously,” Barton said briefly, then returned his arrow to its quiver while pulling a lock pick from another of his capacious pockets.

“Oh, thanks.” The girl turned slightly, allowing Clint to push past Steve towards her. As he began to work at the locks binding her to the wooden chair, she turned to watch with interest. “I’ve got a pin in my hair, but I couldn’t get to it. Next time I’ll put it in my sleeve. I was just about to try rushing at him to break the chair.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve lowered the shield to rest on the floor, one hand keeping it upright. “What was your plan, exactly?”

“I thought I might be able to surprise him, break the chair, and run.”

“You don’t know much about the Winter Soldier, do you?” Barton grunted as he got one hand free.

She flexed her wrist delicately. “Not much. But we’ve been in close quarters lately; I’ve picked up a few things. He’s made of metal, you know, quite hard enough to break the chair. And he moves more slowly than you would think. Like one of those…oh, whatsit, Cybermen.” Steve looked at Clint, who shrugged. She glanced between them in surprise. “Neither of you got farmed off to UNIT?  Lucky you. All sitting around waiting for something interesting to happen.” Becoming businesslike again, she continued. “It may be something to do with the cold. Or perhaps his age.”

“Or he’s playing you,” Barton suggested.

“Or that, yes. But I don’t think so.” She shrugged with her free shoulder, keeping the imprisoned arm still for Barton, who appeared to be having difficulty with the second lock. “I’ve never seen anyone besides him. The thugs who snatched me haven’t made a re-appearance. I rather think he wouldn’t keep them around.”

“Why?” Steve asked, ignoring the look Barton shot him.

“His ego’s enormous; he wouldn’t want to risk anyone else springing his trap.”

“Trap?” He felt his stomach drop as far again as they had come down. “This is a trap?”

“Of course it’s a trap,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. “What else would it be? That’s why they sent you, isn’t it?”

Steve did not reply, all his adrenaline surging into battle mode. Barton paused his lock-picking long enough to unclasp a holster and pass a gun off to Agent Carter. She accepted it smoothly, but looked at Steve with uncertainty. “Didn’t you bring back-up? I felt certain you would have.”

Swinging his shield up, Steve paused long enough to remark cuttingly, “Barton is an assassin. He doesn’t like back-up.” He turned to the door and placed his hand on the latch. “This room is soundproof. Can you hear anything from outside?”

“No,” she responded as Clint finally opened the second long and began unwrapping the chains. “The latch moves, that’s when I know he’s coming.”

He took a breath to steady himself, pushing aside self-accusations of stupidity and shortsightedness. Now was not the time for it; it was time to concentrate on getting them out alive. Later he could chastise himself and Barton and all SHIELD, up to Fury if possible. Another deep breath, and he slowly pushed the door open.

It stopped with a thunk.

He pushed harder. It didn’t move. Then a low chuckle rumbled around him, and a face came into view in the opening.

“Bucky?” Steve asked wonderingly.

“Long time no see, Steve,” the Winter Soldier responded, and lifted his left arm and fired.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Clint Does a Lot of Thinking

When the gun went off, Clint was already preparing to fire, though he couldn’t shoot with Rogers blocking the doorway like an idiot. The noise of the shot reverberated around the room, setting off a strange resonance in the metal walls that he felt more than heard. It must have had quite a kick. The Captain slumped over his left side, then fell to the ground, insensible. Clint raced over to the door, only to find that with Cap in the way, he couldn’t get enough leverage to open the door any further. No matter. Flinging the old arrow to the ground, he cued up an exploding head and whipped it to the string, releasing it through the three-inch crack the Winter Soldier had left. Those always had some effect. Two beats of clanking footsteps, then an explosion. The walls shook with the percussive blast, but he didn’t hear anything heavy falling. As the echoes died off, he strained his ears for any more clues. Didn’t expect much, though, even with the implants. “Do you hear anything?” he asked Agent Carter, who had freed herself from the chair and was now on the ground trying to drag Rogers out of his way.

“No,” she replied, voice very steady. He noted this with the back of his attention, glad she wasn’t about to lose it, as he put his shoulder to the door and tried to push over Cap.

“I can hear you, though!” The Winter Soldier’s voice floated towards them, picking up echoes on it’s way down the hall. Agent Carter opened her mouth to shout something back, but he shushed her with a motion of his hand. The Winter Soldier continued, “Good try, Hawkeye. I look forward to meeting you again. Agent Carter, it’s been a pleasure. Do keep in mind my messages to Peggy?”

“Take them yourself!” she shouted before Clint could stop her. There was a low chuckle in response as the clanking resumed. Pushing Rogers over with one foot, Clint planted himself firmly and pushed hard against the door. It swung open with a groan, allowing Clint to load another exploding arrow and send it down the corridor. It struck the target firmly in the left shoulder before bouncing off and exploding. The blast had no effect on the metal walls, but in the flash he lost sight of the assassin. When the smoke cleared, the Winter Soldier stood silhouetted at the end of the hallway. “Give my love to little Natalia! But then, maybe I’ll be seeing her soon,” he said, lifting one arm in a mocking salute, and was gone.

 _Over my dead body,_ Clint mentally answered as he sprinted down the hall after the clanking. The unprintable had a headstart, but he did move slowly. Arrows traveled, anyway. Suddenly, the lights in the shaft blinked out. Coming to the edge of the hallway, he peered into the dark on either side. He could hear the Winter Soldier thudding off into the distance but the echoes kept him from pinpointing the direction. It was away, though. He swore under his breath before backing his way up the hall.   

“I guess you didn’t get him.”

Clint turned to look at her, busily unsnapping Cap’s jacket to get at the wound. “I did. But it bounced off.”

“I told you he was made of metal.” She wrinkled her nose as she peeled away the left side of the uniform, already matted with blood. “Better not remove this,” she said, referring to the blue undershirt. “It would be good to pad it, though; do you have anything?” At his negative headshake, she raised an eyebrow. “This hasn’t been much of a rescue mission.”

He found that comment unnecessarily snarky, if accurate. Maybe he had something in his suit. Feeling around in his pockets, he located an ace bandage and handed it to her silently. As he did so, the room shuddered, sending him reaching for an arrow even though there wasn’t anything to shoot at. Agent Carter kept calmly wrapping, though, so he arrested his movement. “It does that sometimes,” she said.

“It must be the elevator.”

“There’s an elevator?”

“Yes.”

“Are we underground somewhere?”

“Yes,” he said again, not feeling it necessary to explain all the details. “In Russia.”

Done with the bandage, which didn’t wrap around Rogers’s waist very many times, she sat back on her heels to survey her work, shaking her long hair out of her face as she did so. “I was knocked out when they brought me in, so I haven’t seen anything. I don’t think we can manage him unconscious, though.”

“He’ll be fine,” Clint said, picking up his discarded arrow and sticking it back in his quiver. “Give him a minute.” Actually, he realized, it had already been longer than he would have thought. During the fight against Loki, he had watched Rogers fall out of a second story window onto a car and get up without much problem. A gunshot shouldn’t keep him down this long.

Just as he was about to get concerned, Rogers began to stir, flopping over onto his back and breathing heavily. Carter bent over him, placing a calming hand on one shoulder. “It’s all right. You’re going to be fine. We wrapped your wound and it will stop bleeding soon.”

“I clot fast,” Rogers said, struggling to sit up. “But thanks.”

As Steve got up on one elbow the young woman slipped an arm behind his back, helping him up the rest of the way while pressing down on the bandage. “Actually I enjoyed it. I never get to use first aid and I’m very good at it. Sometimes I think I was a nurse in a previous life.”

“I don’t…really believe in that,” Rogers panted, curling his body into a c-shape around her hand.

“I don’t either, I suppose, but as a small girl I used to imagine myself into the past with Aunt Peg, and I never got over the habit.”

Rogers gave one of his “in case that was funny” smiles, shivering. “Can I have my coat back? It’s kind of cold in here.”

It was not cold in the tiny room with all three of them; Clint had actually found it surprisingly pleasant for Russia. Plus, hadn’t Rogers been literally frozen for seventy years? But maybe the shock was catching up to him. Agent Carter draped the uniform over his shoulders gently. “There. I’m sorry there’s a dreadful hole in it; you won’t be able to wear it again. I liked your old uniform better, though, so perhaps it’s a lucky thing.”

Clint rolled his eyes inwardly. No wonder this girl had been stuck behind a desk. She was totally missing a grasp of essentials. Then he noticed that she never took her eyes from Rogers’, watching the dilation in his pupils, and that she had stealthily laid two fingers over his left wrist. Not so bad, then. He also noticed the exact moment Rogers realized what had happened, eyes darkening with betrayal and confusion. “Bucky shot me.”

“Yes, he did,” Agent Carter confirmed regretfully at the exact same time Clint said “No, he didn’t.” They both looked up at him, ready to disagree, but he continued forcefully. “The _Winter Soldier_ did. Just like I told you he would.” Steve glared at him. Well, perhaps it had been a cheap shot. He wasn’t going to stress about it, though. He had _warned_ him of the danger. He didn’t listen. Next time, there wouldn’t be this problem. “We need to go.”

Drawing his knees to his chest stiffly, Rogers made a face. “After him?”

“We still have orders.” Even more pressing orders, now; the Winter Soldier had deliberately fired on an agent of SHIELD and threatened vendettas against several more. He had to be taken out before something went really wrong. Steve nodded, gingerly sticking his arms in his sleeves.

Carter stood, offering one bloody hand to help Steve up. “No,” she said, not looking at Clint. “You’re in no shape to go traipsing over hill and dale after him. We need to get you to medical.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine!” Rogers didn’t take her hand, looking instead to Clint. “I’ve taken worse hits than that.”

“Yes, exactly.” Carter, too, looked at him. “The Winter Soldier boasted to me that he meant any meeting to end very badly for Captain Rogers. So why did he leave without making sure he was dead?”

“Maybe he didn’t expect him to survive a bullet at that proximity.”

“But I don’t think it was a bullet.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Didn’t you hear it? Anyway, a bullet fired at that range would leave an exit wound. Captain Rogers hasn’t got one.”

There was a no-nonsense air about her that, combined with the stubborn jut of her chin, let Clint know she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Rogers could order her, but he wouldn’t. Not unless he felt the situation demanded it. If Clint was being honest with himself, she was right – there was something off here. For a trap that included kidnapping and getting electricity to a Soviet-era refrigerator in a mountain, there was a surprising lack of follow-through. Plus, world-class assassins _always_ check their work. “She could be right,” he told the Captain. “It sounds like he already left. We’d have to run him down.”

“I can manage,” Cap grimaced, placing one hand behind him to push his body off the ground. Instead of rising, though, he stalled halfway up and fell back down. That decided it. Clint had once pulled himself hand over hand up a rope with a bullet in his side and a broken wrist; an enhanced super-soldier should have no problem getting up from the ground.  Well, that was that. He would have liked to take out the unprintable quick and easy, but it wasn’t worth the potential harm to Steve. Fury would shoot him if he managed to get Captain America killed.

“Here,” he said, offering his hand as well. “We won’t be able to get him. Let’s just get us out.”

Between the two of them, they hauled Cap to his feet. One arm around Clint’s shoulders, the soldier tilted heavily to one side. “Get on his other side,” Clint told Carter, “We’ll have to help him out.”

She obeyed, ducking under Cap’s right shoulder after retrieving Clint’s gun from the floor. “Would you rather have your right hand free to shoot? I know you can use both, but which is easier for you?”

 _Good observation, nice foresight_ , Clint thought, impressed. “I’m left-handed.”

“I’m sorry if I’m bleeding on you,” Steve mumbled groggily.

“You’re not the first.” Definitely not. He wouldn’t say he was _fond_ of it, though. A benefit of being a long distance killer was the lack of blood. The dirty, sticky, sweaty business was more Nat’s line. The repartee and the politics and the taunting – she was good at those, too. Hearing the Winter Soldier’s voice in his head, Clint had a sickening feeling he knew where she had learned it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Takes Place at a British SHIELD Base

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agents of SHIELD hadn't come out yet when I began this fic, so I had to make up a lot of SHIELD structure. It's now defunct, of course, but c'est la vie.

The debriefing agent made a note, looking at Ivy over her glasses. “And what happened next?”

“Agent Barton and I decided that, due to Captain Rogers’ weakness, it would be wise to take the elevator if it was not compromised. I ascertained that it was safe and we exited the fortress – mountain?”

“The place you were kept, anyway.”

“Yes. After Agent Barton made contact with the jet, we hiked back. There were no obvious complications, but it took us rather more than an hour.”

“Why?”

Ivy paused, raising one eyebrow. “I don’t know whether you have ever tried to climb down a mountain in tandem with another person whose stride is very different from yours, while supporting another person who is not only a foot taller than either of you but also can’t take a step without wincing…”

“Was Captain Rogers complaining of pain?”

“Complaining? no. But he was in it all the same. When we got to the rendezvous point, Agent Barton had them land the plane at great risk because we were uncertain of Captain Rogers’ ability to climb the ladder. He appeared to improve considerably on the flight back.”

“And you came straight here?”

“Yes. At my suggestion, Agent Barton was sufficiently concerned about Captain Rogers’ condition to direct his pilots here, rather than their own base.”

She flipped through the sheaf of papers, numbering them as she went. “Thank you, Agent Carter, that’s very clear. We will, of course, still require a written report by tomorrow. For now you are free to go.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ivy began to leave, but turned back. “My mission in Spain – I was uploading the files when I was grabbed – did you - ?”

The older agent smiled. “We got them, agent. Good work.” 

“Thanks.”

* * *

 

“Well, at first run-through, there’s nothing wrong with you. Less than nothing wrong with you.”

Steve was momentarily relieved, until he realized the doctor had taken more than one run at him. “But?”

“Well, Agent Carter is right that it’s odd that there’s no trace of a bullet.” The doctor’s eyes were sober. “But not to worry; there’s any number of reasons that could be.”

“Something with electricity?” Steve suggested, thinking of his recent experience with alien technology.

“Perhaps. We’ll continue to run tests. Don’t worry, Captain. I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

Steve returned the doctor’s reassuring smile, but he couldn’t ignore the churning in his stomach. This ache, still present after sixteen hours, didn’t feel like _nothing_.

* * *

 

First thing Clint did was scope out the British SHIELD base, finding the highest secluded corner he could still see from. Second thing was, obviously, clean his weapons. Only then did he allow himself a bit of down time. Hunkered down in a corner, he tucked the phone between his shoulder and left ear. “Peanut,” he said at its request for authorization.

_Welcome, Agent Barton. You have three messages._

“Agent Barton! Tony Stark. Bruce is here too. We were wondering – okay, _I_ was wondering - how many arrows does your quiver hold now? We’re bored with physics and feel like getting the shop messy. Let us know.”

He would obviously have to speak with Stark about what it meant to be a _secret_ agent.

BEEP.

“Your presence is duly required in conference room 12-R at 1500 sharp. Thank you.”

The meeting with Fury, no doubt. Joy.

BEEP.

“This is the Greenwich Public Library.”

He sat up as Tasha’s voice came over the line, warm and exhausted.

“Someone at this number has a book on hold. Please come pick it up within a week, or we will place a fine on your account. Thank you.”

BEEP.

He translated the message without even thinking, an ability born of long habit. So her mission had gone well, she was safe, and she would be there when he got back. Good. If any of this had to come out, it would be better in person, after a successful mission. And with some sleep. And vodka.

* * *

 

“Hilda’s Home for the Elderly, this is Tamsin.”

“Tamsin? It’s Ivy.”

The nurse’s voice dropped its professional veneer. “Ivy? Your aunt’s been asking after you. Is everything all right, love?”

“Yes, everything’s fine.” Ivy looked over her shoulder furvitively and lowered her voice. “Listen, Tamsin, I’m not sure if any of this is classified, so keep it quiet. Tell her I’ve met the Golden Boy, and I’ll come see her as soon as I can.”

Tamsin shrieked. “You never did! And is he as gorgeous in person?”

“Mm, yes. I would say yes. But I really have to go, Tamsin; I’m called to a meeting. Give my love to Aunt Peg.”

She hung up without waiting for a response. The meeting wasn’t for another hour, but it would be her first time seeing the famous Fury, and she felt a need to mentally prepare. Gushing about Captain Rogers’ physiche with Tamsin would not be helpful in that process. Far too distracting.

 

* * *

“The number you have dialed is invalid. Please confirm and try again.” 

Steve took the phone from his ear and looked at the screen, confirming the number for the fifth time. He had been told the benefit of the new phones was not having to remember the number; didn’t do you much good if it dialed wrong. Digging his address book from his pocket, he flipped to W and scanned for the person he wanted.

“I’m fairly certain no one has used an address book at SHIELD for thirty years.” Agent Carter came up by his elbow, arching an eyebrow at his little book. “Hasn’t anyone shown you how to put numbers in your mobile?”

“Yes, but something’s wrong with it. It keeps telling me the number is invalid.”

“May I see?” He handed her the phone, noticing as he did that she had changed into a SHIELD uniform. Hers was blue, though – blue again – maybe because she belonged to a different branch. Brushing her hair behind one of her ears, she said, “I see the problem. You were trying to dial a UK number with the international area code; the system won’t recognise it that way. Try dialing without the two fours at the beginning.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. You did save my life, after all; it’s the least I can do.” That was a joke, and he gave her a real smile in return for her grin. “Is that a contact? Only I couldn’t help but notice the title.”

“No,” Steve said, putting parenthesis around the international code and carefully imputing the remaining digits. “An old friend. That’s what they called him during the war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will keep making these references in the fic to Steve's old war friend— it doesn't say in the fic anywhere and isn't really relevant, but it's meant to be Rory Williams from Doctor Who.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ivy is Handed Something She Would Rather Drop

Conference Room 12-R was on one of the lowest levels of the British SHIELD, and therefore one of the most secure. Whereas the American branch preferred to fly above the radar, the UK version hunkered down in old bomb shelters. Ivy had always found that indicative. They did, however, share a predilection for sleek modern design and the latest video conferencing technology, as well as the legendary passion for glossy tables. This one was so shiny she could see her reflection as if it was a mirror. Clustered around it, Ivy recognized a veritable Who’s Who of SHIELD officials, from the Deputy Director – Fury’s counterpart on this side of the pond – to the Weapons Development Specialist. She wasn’t aware they ever gathered all together like this; it seemed like tempting fate. Most probably, that was why the meeting was in 12-R.

Ivy slid into a seat about halfway down the crowded table, hiding herself behind the bulky form of the Deputy Director. She had never anticipated a day when the grizzled old soldier would be one of the more reassuring figures in the room, but then she hadn’t anticipated being called to a briefing with Fury, even over a secure video feed, for ten years at least. She had no pretensions about her career trajectory. Subtly sucking in a deep breath, Ivy tried to hide her quivering hands under the table. Funny, this was perhaps the scariest thing she had faced down yet.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Her eyes darted to the reflection of the man looming above her. “Certainly, Captain. If you don’t think you need to sit closer to the screen.”

He pulled out the chair next to her and sat stiffly, still, she noticed, favouring his left side. “I’m closer than Agent Barton. I think Fury is used to it.”

“Where is Agent Barton?” she asked, scanning the room.

“I think in the ventilators.”

Well, _that_ was odd. Ivy decided not to comment on it. “Did you reach your friend?”

“No.” Steve’s eyes darkened. “He and his wife are traveling again. They’ll get back to me when they can.”

Ivy wanted to ask more questions – for example, what ninety-year-old veteran makes a habit of going on holiday? – but the screen hovering above them flicked on abruptly. Fury’s face filled the room, larger even than his reputation. “Will someone please tell me what the hell happened?”

The entire chain of command turned to look at Steve. Gamely rising to his feet and squaring his shoulders, he began. “We infiltrated the structure and located Agent Carter, but were taken by surprise. I was sidelined due to an injury and Agent Barton-”

“I know all that; I did read the reports. That doesn’t tell me how we had three agents to one outdated piece of Soviet tech and still managed to lose the best lead we’ve had in 40 years.”

Ivy had a thought about that, but before she could begin, another voice broke in. “Sir, with all due respect” – she jumped, not having heard Agent Barton enter the room – “I believe we gave him too much rope. We treated the hostile as a potential threat, rather than a confirmed danger.”

Fury held up a hand. “We all know your opinion on the matter.”

“But I was right,” Barton maintained evenly. “He shot Captain Rogers on sight and left him for dead.”

“But he didn’t shoot Agent Carter,” the Deputy Director threw out. “That’s a departure from his pattern in the past.”

“Agent Carter was not his endgame. He seems to have developed a complex of some kind, since he demonstrated a fixation on his past: Agent Peggy Carter, Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff. I believe he poses a serious threat to those who stand in the way of his ultimate revenge.”

Ivy pursed her lips, weighing the idea against her own interactions with the assassin. She could see how Agent Barton would say that, but something didn’t seem accurate in his assessment. The others at the table began to buzz amongst themselves, discussing the suggestion. Captain Rogers, who had sunk back in his chair, now raised his voice firmly. “You call ‘ultimate revenge’ shooting me, when he knows from personal experience that it takes more than one measly bullet to lay me out? He’s not stupid.”

The Deputy Director nodded on Ivy’s left. “That’s right. His hits before the Sabbatical were always complex and intricate.”

Barton looked to Fury. “You know who helped him plan those hits.”

Fury acknowledged that comment with a blink, then turned to Captain Rogers. “So what was the point then? Was shooting you his way of turning himself in?”

“I think it’s possible he’s acting under some kind of compulsion.” Captain Rogers studiously avoided looking at Agent Barton, but the rest of the table couldn’t help themselves. Cap continued stoutly, “We know that people operating under mind control have a certain amount of ability to subvert their orders. This could be the same.”

“That’s never been suggested as a possibility,” someone Ivy couldn’t see objected; someone else down the table countered that things could be different after the re-emergence. Fury questioned the Deputy Director, who appealed to Steve, who looked at Barton standing impassive in the corner. Ivy could hear at least three conversations going on at various decibels, all of them based on outdated information. _Honestly!_ She told herself firmly. Was she Aunt Peg’s protégée or not? “Excuse me,” she said, leaping to her feet, “but since I’m the only person here to have spoken with the Winter Soldier recently, perhaps I can provide some clarity?”

Every eye in the room turned to her, including Fury’s patch. “Agent Carter,” he said, “I was wondering when you’d speak up. Your aunt wouldn’t have been quiet so long.”

“My aunt knew you before you had the eye patch,” Ivy answered, “sir.”

Fury ignored her. Ivy got the feeling he did a lot of that. “So what do you think, o favoured one? What did the Winter Soldier gain by this little escapade?”

She took a deep breath, suddenly aware that she enjoyed the captive attention of some of the most powerful people on two separate continents. “Sir, I think the Winter Soldier gained our attention, and that was all he was after.”

“You’ll have to say more than that. The Winter Soldier didn’t need to be this elaborate to gain our attention.”

“Of course not, sir. Agent Barton is correct to say that the Winter Soldier has a very specific focus. He intends to cause some kind of serious harm to Captain Rogers; all his interrogations were centralized around that topic.” She flipped her hair over her shoulders, gaining confidence. “I do not, however, think this amounts to a mania with him. A maniac would have been less deliberate with his actions and words. I also think it telling that he settled for verbal taunts with Agent Barton, rather than taking him out. Finally, the odd nature of Captain Rogers’ wound raises more questions. I agree that he is dangerous, but also more cunning than we have given him credit for.”

Fury regarded her steadily for a moment, then looked over her head. “Agent Barton, what is your assessment of Agent Carter?”

Barton didn’t even hesitate. “I think she has the potential to be an exemplary agent, sir.”

His words made Ivy feel a little lightheaded – _the_ Agent Barton, _the_ hero of New York, said _she_ could be an exemplary agent? – but she thought she managed to hide it well.  Her composure didn’t last long, however; Fury’s next speech knocked her cold.

“Deputy Director, I’m going to make Agent Carter point person for the Winter Soldier. Send any information you receive to her and I’ll have my people do the same. That’s all, gentlemen.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Steve Wears Down Three Pencils

The screen flicked off as suddenly as it had come on, allowing no opposition from those gathered in the room. Steve had no doubt that was why Fury did it. He wished he could have left with the director. The second they had gathered themselves, the SHIELD brass started jabbering a mile a minute, arguing the pros and cons of Agent Carter’s appointment – mainly cons. She was too young, too inexperienced, not strong in international relations, too close to the situation, not close enough. She herself sat silently as the battle raged around her, eyes bright and face red-tinged. Steve knew what that was like. Poor girl had been thrust into a position she hadn’t asked for and now had to sit and listen to a bunch of people who thought she couldn’t do it. It really wasn’t fair.

It was stupid to argue anyway. Things had changed a lot in 70 years, but last Steve knew an order was an order. Just as he was about to throw his two cents in, Barton spoke up from the corner. “Captain Rogers and I have a flight to catch. Will you let us know if you decide to ignore Director Fury? We’d like to stay out of his way.”

Thank goodness for Barton’s dry understatement. That stopped them in their tracks; one man across from Steve actually left his mouth hanging open. It was clear that none of them had realized their discussion was essentially an act of rebellion. On the other side of Agent Carter, the man Steve believed to be in charge spread his hands out in front of him ponderously. “There is no reason at present to not follow through with the course of action Director Fury has laid out. It’s not likely anything momentous will happen. Anyway, she already has a desk.” He swiveled in his chair to face her. “Congratulations, Agent.”

“Thank you for those encouraging words, sir.” Steve caught half a smile from Barton and added one of his own; sounded like Agent Carter already had the tones necessary to deal with rude superiors. The older man drew his bushy eyebrows together and officially dismissed the meeting with a crisp “That will be all.”

Steve rose and checked his watch. It was later than he thought and they really did need to be going. He turned to Agent Carter, dipping his head in a brief goodbye.

“My first name’s Ivy,” she said quickly, jamming her hands in her pockets.

Steve could feel himself blushing. Why did she tell him that? These professional women, so forward – Steve couldn’t get used to it. Agent Romanoff had told him in no uncertain terms she would not answer to “ma’am” and he generally got around that by only addressing her when they were making eye contact. She certainly hadn’t said “Call me Natasha” and he wouldn’t dare try. “That’s a nice name,” he said finally. “Mine’s Steve.”

She laughed, not meanly. “Of course I know that. Don’t you know who my aunt is? I meant for the email. You’ll be sending me your report, won’t you? So you’ll need my first name.”

Laughing made her whole face light up, clearing away the anxious expression she had worn since Fury’s pronouncement. Steve quickly decided, in words he didn’t know if people said anymore, that laughter was the best medicine. “Let me write that down,” he said, pulling his address book from his pocket, “or I’ll forget before I learn to email.” He joined her laugh this time, making the other agents shoot them glares as they filed past into the hall. “I actually know how,” he admitted, “but I will write it down in case.”

“Quick learner. My grandfather refuses to try and he must be younger than you are.”

“He probably doesn’t know Tony Stark.”

“Only by reputation, and Aunt Peg’s stories.” She rolled her eyes. “Believe me, we’ve heard enough of those to know we’d rather keep away.”

Steve was reminded of his neighborhood in Brooklyn, where it seemed everyone had either married or beat up everyone else. Shaking his head, he finished inscribing his new contact and pocketed the book. “I haven’t written my report yet since I was in medical. I’ll get it done tomorrow.”

“No worries; I won’t come down on you if I don’t get it straight away.” Her eyes flickered over his shoulder and she smiled, dropping her glance back to him. “Agent Barton is waiting for you. I think he’s planning to hurl something at the back of your neck.”

Steve looked behind him, where Barton caught his eye and tapped his bare wrist meaningfully. “We have a flight to catch.”

“Well then. Safe travels.” She offered her hand for him to shake. “I hope, if you’ll forgive me for saying it, that we don’t meet again soon.”

“Good luck on your new job,” he said, enveloping her hand in his.

She smiled wearily and returned her hand to her pocket. “Would you thank Agent Barton for me? I don’t think the Director would have done that if he hadn’t said what he did.”

“I will, but don’t sell yourself short. I think Fury had made up his mind before Barton said anything.” She smiled then, though it was obviously just a mouth movement. He wished he could bring her brightness back, but that was something she would have to do for herself. “I had better go before Barton gets angry.”

“What is he like angry?” 

Steve considered. “He talks a little less.”

* * *

 

A week after the Winter Soldier Incident, Steve was still laying low. His side hurt, for one thing, even though the scar had all but disappeared; he was actively avoiding a debrief with a shrink, for another. Almost as soon as he and Barton stepped off the jet, he had received a nicely worded request to meet with Dr. Xanthos at his earliest convenience. But it was a request, so he ignored it. Shrinks had gotten crazy since his day, jabbering on about things people shouldn’t discuss with complete strangers and convinced everybody’s problems were someone else’s fault. That would not be helpful.

Instead, he spent the week in his apartment, sitting with an ice pack in his upright wingback by the window, drawing. He had always found that sketching helped him to sort through his ideas in a way nothing else could. The sketchpad and pencils had been on the table when he moved in, left there no doubt by someone who had read his file carefully (or Agent Coulson, who didn’t need to). He had appreciated the gesture, but at the time the last thing he wanted was to dwell on the thoughts pounding at his heart. Now it seemed like the only way to make sense of it.

First he had drawn Bucky, over and over – as he had first known him at age nine, with a girl on each arm in high school, as a cocky young sergeant, laughing in a pub with the Commandos. Then, slowly and deliberately, he drew the Bucky he had seen in that underground refrigerator. His pencil shaded deep black circles under hard eyes and filled in the crevices that used to be smile lines. The longer he drew, the more Steve understood why they called him the Winter Soldier. His face looked frozen, hard and cold, unyielding. But –

Steve considered the images spread out around his chair. There was a difference, a distinct difference, between his memories of Bucky and what he had seen last week. He would be stupid to pretend otherwise. Still, he couldn’t make himself believe, like Agent Barton did, that his friend was completely gone.

He had drawn Barton, too – mostly Barton angry, trying to capture what a man who doesn’t show emotion looks like when he can’t help it. A tricky and interesting exercise. He couldn’t claim to understand the agent better at the end, but it ate up a lot of time.

Then he drew the Brooklyn Bridge, which he could see from his window. The new city skyline. The teams still cleaning up the rubble. Then he tried to sleep. Then he read a biography of Richard Nixon, and one of Ford. Then he tried to sleep again.

He couldn’t manage it, though. Warm milk didn’t help; neither did the pills the SHIELD doctors prescribed for him months ago. When he had first woken up, he hadn’t wanted to sleep; the memories crowded in and he woke up crying more often than not. Even then, though, the serum-infused cells had required it. This insomnia was a new experience. Leaning over to flick on the bedside lamp, he rubbed one hand through his hair. Who was he kidding? He knew why he couldn’t sleep.

Rising from his bed, Steve winced at the nagging pain in his side. He made his was to the wingback and settled in, realizing disgustedly that the cushion had a definite indent from the last week. Light on, pad open, pencil ready – but what to draw?

He started with the trees, old gnarled twisted things, branches all tangled together. The emptiness between them yawned utterly black. They surrounded a shadowy clearing, dappled with patches of moonlight. That was the easy part; it came almost direct from the movie. He sharpened his pencil to a fine point before beginning on the figure. She stood with her back to the viewer, shoulders back and defiance in every line. Her dark hair tumbled down her back towards the gun in one hand, half-hidden in her princess skirts.

 _Agent Carter at Her New Job_ , he wrote across the bottom, and reflected it was a pity he couldn’t email her a copy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Interoffice Mail Flies Furiously

When faced with this amount of work in uni, Ivy had indulged in some good, head-on-the-desk moaning. It was a struggle not to do so now, partly relieved by shame but mostly by the fact that there was not one square centimeter of space available to lay her head on. And the files covering her desk, heaped three and four high, smelt of mold spores. She sighed, leaning back in her chair to see if they only looked imposing because she was right up next to them.

Nope.

“Last batch, Ivy.” The head archivist dropped another pile on her desk, sending up a cloud of dust he waved away from his face unconcernedly. “At least the last I’ve found. They dinna mark them under his name when he first started, of course.”

“Thanks, Robbie.” Sighing again, she opened a file with her forefinger and thumb. The typewritten papers inside had yellowed, turning brittle and crusty with age. Ivy knew from experience that these old pages were fragile, and that each one contained information SHIELD didn’t have anywhere else. She had spent many months and much energy on similar documents before her recent promotion.

The elderly man, familiar with Ivy’s expressions after her long sojourn in Archives, made a sympathetic face. “And here I thought you were done with the old files, girl! Got a new assignment as a ‘real’ agent and gone with the wind!”

“Technically, I am. It’s a _new_ assignment, but not a _field_ one.” She shook her head ruefully. “I certainly thought I’d last longer than one mission.”

“Chin up. You’ll be back out there in no time.”

“As soon as I get through all these. At least I’m just reading them; can you imagine if I had to scan and sort them, too?”

“Och! You’d be here until you’re as old as the hills – old as me, even!” He chuckled, the warm sound like a balm to Ivy’s irritated spirit. “And, though you’d rather be somewhere else, I’m glad to have you about.”

“Thanks, Robbie. Really.” As he walked away, Ivy decided with sudden vehemence that the old musty files could wait. No one needed them right now, and surely the Winter Soldier’s more recent activities, which had been uploaded to her station this morning, were ultimately more significant? And she hadn’t had a chance to read Barton’s report, either. Propping an elbow on the brown folders, she typed in her password and clicked on her email. Barton, C, was right at the top. She selected the attachment, laughing again at the message he had included:

_Don’t thank me until you’ve had to explain yourself to the Council. Then you might have an idea what you’re in for. –CB_

The report was like the man who wrote it: business-like, practical, and using a minimum of words. As a procrastination device, it failed. Ivy was reading it through a second time when her computer binked, signifying a new email. She pulled her inbox to the front, catching her breath when she saw the new message had come from the Deputy Director.

_Since the majority of the documents pertaining to the Winter Soldier exist only in paper form, and since she is already skilled in the process, Agent Carter is requested to scan and organize all files utilized in her investigation._

The battle was lost. Ivy put her head on the keyboard and groaned.

* * *

 

During the next few weeks, Ivy felt certain she was slowly morphing into some sort of burrowing animal – a stoat, perhaps, or a mole. Something that lived underground, anyway, and blinked in the sun. She went down to her desk when the morning grey still covered the sky and didn’t usually emerge until past dark. And it was supposed to be summer!

Oh, she was making progress. She had got through nearly five years worth of kills, including cross-references and files Robbie hadn’t known to bring. Everything she had looked at was now neatly organized in an electric library by date, location, and significance of target. It was hard to feel accomplished, though, when she still had almost 40 years to go. Thank heaven for the Sabbatical, or she would likely cry.

She felt like crying anyway, she thought one night as she drearily plodded up the steps at the Underground station. SHIELD agents were tough – they had to be – and Ivy was as good as any of them, but the Winter Soldier’s kills were so brutal, so inhumane, so downright _cruel_ that staring at them all day was beginning to take its toll on her psyche. Perhaps tonight she’d try some Agatha Christie before bed. There was nothing like a nice decent poisoning to take one’s mind off things.

Letting herself into her dark flat and placing her keys on the hall table, Ivy fumbled to turn off the alarm before flicking on the light. She toed off her shoes and headed directly for the bedroom to change, but was stopped halfway up the hall when her mobile buzzed. “Hullo?” she answered, trying to wrestle off her tights with one hand.

“Ivy, this is your aunt. Are you able to talk, darling?”

Ivy slumped against the wall, closing her eyes as she slid to the floor. A cold lump of guilt settled in her stomach. “Aunt Peg. Oh, Aunt Peg, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come by. The hours I’m putting in – you should see –“

Peggy’s voice, still strong and authoritative despite her age, cut her off. “Now, to whom are you speaking? I know what it’s like in our line of work. This is not a guilt call. Only I haven’t spoken with you in far too long, dear girl, and we never know, do we? I was up, and though I’d give you a ring. That’s all.”

“You’ll outlive us all,” Ivy said, trying to speak past the lump that had traveled to her throat.

“Not Steve, I fancy. Unless he does something noble again and doesn’t make it out this time.”

“He and Bucky can fight it out.”

Ivy didn’t realize what she had said until Aunt Peg, aghast, repeated it. “Bucky? They’ve put you on the – the W.S.?”

“He was…part of my trip,” she replied slowly, mentally kicking herself for letting it slip. It was supposed to be classified, for one thing, and she hadn’t wanted to have her aunt worry about her old colleague turned nemesis. Trying to work her way out of it, Ivy lightened her tone. “I’m just reading the files now. You come up quite often! You never let on you were such a badass.”

Aunt Peg refused her levity, as Ivy had thought she would. “Nick should be shot, giving you that your first time out. And Crispin! He’s never had the guts to make it, ever.”

“It was an accident; no one knew he would be involved.”

“Well, this explains why you sound like someone drove over you with a lorry.”

Trust Aunt Peg to come up with just the right simile. “Feels like it too, one of the ones full of marrows.” Ivy sniffed back and wiped away one traitorous tear. “But I’ll be all right, really. I think I’m just disappointed.”

“No, you’re not.” Ivy knew better than to argue with that tone. “If you’ll take some advice from an old woman-”

“Always.”

“Stop looking at the pictures. The descriptions are quite enough. And go out, darling. Don’t work 10-hour days and come home to brood.”

“Out with who?” Ivy smiled. “You know what happened to the last good man.”

“Yes, I know. But do it anyway.”

The last thing Ivy wanted to do after staring at bloody corpses all day was to go out for an evening on the town, but if anyone knew how to cope with horror it would be the Grand Old Dame of SHIELD. “I’ll try, Aunt Peg.”

“There’s my girl. Eyes forward. And do be safe, won’t you?”

“You, too.” 

Ivy clicked the END button and leaned her head against the wall. Aunt Peg was, no doubt, right, but she couldn’t work up the energy to go down the pub tonight. The take-away man might be more than she could face.

* * *

 

_When we arrived on the scene, the General and his attaché were already dead. They had bled out from wounds consistent to other assassinations by the Winter Soldier. Agent Ross located Caravelli in an upper room, fatally beaten about the head but still alive. He was able to inform us –_

Ivy put her finger on the spot in the report and used her other hand to peck out her password. This was the fourth kill in a row to leave a barely-alive witness – a pattern, then, not uncharacteristic sloppiness. She needed to add this to her notes in case it continued. Of course, they had all gotten out alive last time and none had the time before, so best not put too much emphasis on it. It was almost 50 years ago, after all; people change. She activated the dictation software and began speaking, the words appearing on the screen as she said them.

_In 1953, the W.S. began a series of kills in which he left a witness alive for agents to find. These witnesses were given special messages on a variety of subjects, and had usually been beaten about the head._

Note taken. Later, maybe, she would go back and write down all the messages, but now it was almost lunchtime and she was _not_ working through again. She was going to go up top, grab a pannini from the corner shop, and sit in the park for at least twenty minutes.

Locking her computer screen, she took her handbag from the bottom drawer and swung it over her shoulder, groaning as she felt the buzz of her mobile in its recesses. Had she forgotten to take it off silent again?

Pulling it from her purse, she frowned at the message that flashed on the screen: FIVE MISSED CALLS. Before she could navigate to the call log, however, a new call came in: DIRECTOR FURY.

She took a deep breath, then answered in what she hoped was a sufficiently steady voice. “Hello, Director.”

“Why do you not answer your phone?” he demanded. “God forbid we have to get ahold of you in an emergency.”

“I’m sorry, Director, it won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t. We need you in conference stat. Are you by your desk?”

She glanced at her computer, fully five years behind the latest technology. “Yes, sir, but I don’t have conferencing set up on it. I hardly have internet. It used to be an archive computer, sir.”

“Then find one that does have it. But get your email first. I’m having them send you some documents you need to see.”

Inwardly regretting her sandwich, Ivy went over to the computer and unlocked it. New email, encoded – must be something of importance to be encoded between agents. “What’s happened, Director? Has there been another incident?”

“No. Apparently, we should have listened to you.”

She began running the decoding program, eyes following each line of text as it came clear. “Listened to me about what?” It looked like it was a report by some kind of doctor, forwarded to herself and Fury – and - Natasha Romanoff - and – Hostile Weapons Information? What in the world?

Captain Rogers came in complaining of stiffness. We were sufficiently alarmed to run a series of full diagnostics and discovered a potentially very serious and previously unknown condition around the recent injury site.

Ivy’s eyes widened as the report continued to roll across the screen. “Director – this is saying-” 

Fury rolled right over her, voice grave. ‘Saying you were right, Agent Carter. There was more to that shot than we thought.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which There is Yet Another Briefing

Ivy burst through the first door at the top of the stairs, mobile in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the startled man behind this desk, “but I have to commandeer your computer.”

“And who are you, exactly?” the man (she thought his name was Raj) demanded as she began spreading her reports over his desk, bending over him to save his computer files before closing them down.

“Here, talk to Director Fury.” Shoving the mobile at the sputtering Raj, she checked the palm of her hand for the secure conference line’s number. Fury’s invective was muffled, but Raj’s face, combined with the fact that he vacated the chair, gave her a pretty good idea of what was being said. He handed her mobile back, a bit shaken. “He said to go get you a sandwich. Do you have a preference?”

Good old Director Fury, not losing sight of essentials in a crisis. That was why he was the boss. “No, anything, thanks.” As Raj left the office, shutting the door behind him gingerly, Ivy yanked out her ponytail and fluffed her hair quickly. It was silly, but she felt more in control with her hair down. Clicking into the conference, now connected, she paused a minute before turning on the camera. It looked like a small meeting: Director Fury and Captain Rogers, naturally; a youngish blond man in a white lab coat she imagined would be the doctor; an older out-at-the-elbows man she couldn’t place. Not so bad, then. It was a pity Agent Romanoff wasn’t there, though; Ivy had looked forward to meeting her.

Her face filled the tiny screen on the table in front of Steve, which he liked much better than having her loom over them like the Great and Terrible Oz. She was all business, mouth set in a firm line as she apologized for the delay. “I didn’t have time to do more than skim the report on the way up. I would appreciate a more in-depth explanation.”

Steve looked at his doctor, who looked at Fury. No one, it seemed, wanted to try to explain what was going on. Steve wasn’t even sure he _understood_ what was going on. Finally, Dr. Gervis began, haltingly. “Well – it’s hard to say for sure, since we’ve never seen anything like it before, but Captain Rogers appears to be – freezing. From the inside.”

She huffed, drawing her lips tighter together. “Yes, but how?”

The doctor ran a hand through his sandy hair. “If you’ll turn to the images on the last page, that’s pretty much the best we’ve got.”

She looked down, probably at the report. Steve did the same, flipping to the back of the packet and pouring over the images. Maybe if he understood the pictures, he could wrap his brain around the whole thing.  

“So…” Agent Carter began after a minute, “when Captain Rogers was shot, the presumed bullet was actually an ice capsule of some sort? Which we can assume melted, which is why we couldn’t find it.” Steve saw an I-told-you-so flash over her face, but it was only for a second. “And this capsule, or whatever, started generating ice crystals inside the wound.”

“Right,” Gervis confirmed, “at least that’s our best guess. However it started, what’s happening now is pretty clear. The blood stream is carrying whatever makes these crystals along, and when ever it runs over the iceberg, if you will, it add another layer.”

“So it’s growing,” Ivy said, parroting Steve’s thoughts. “What are we anticipating here? Will he _all_ ice over, eventually?”

The very idea made Steve sick inside. Hadn’t he had his fair share of ice already? Dr. Gervis’ shrug in response was less than encouraging. “Eventually? If left untreated, probably.”

“Well, what’s being done about it? Can’t you operate or something?” She sounded almost accusatory, looking fiercely in what he assumed was the doctor’s direction. Dr. Gervis sighed, having already hashed this out with Fury. Seeing his frustration, Steve jumped in quickly. “It doesn’t sound like it’s something they can just take out. It’s like my whole muscle is freezing.”

“Well, radiation then. There must be something.”

Fury spoke for the first time, tenting his hands in front of him. “I have already been informed that we will be exploring all possible options for treatment. There isn’t a weird disease or injury Dr. Gervis can’t figure out in time. You may rest assured that Captain Rogers is in good hands. The question is: what kind of technology is this, and where the --- did he get it?”  

“Sorry, sir.” Shuffling with her papers, Agent Carter resumed her deferential attitude. “Obviously I haven’t been through all the files yet, but I haven’t seen anything like this before. It doesn’t seem in keeping with his character as I understand it from the past – more subtle than is usual, and he tended to like to be in at the kill.”

 _In at the kill_ , she said, like he was a hunter or some sort of carnivore. All those nights of drawing hadn’t reconciled the two people in Steve’s head at all – Bucky was Bucky, and this comic book villain they called the Winter Soldier was someone completely different. Steve had known Bucky all his life; he knew him like he knew his own self. No matter how Bucky had changed, he wouldn’t be a person who liked to watch people die. End of story. So they couldn’t be the same person, whatever SHIELD’s information said. Whatever he had thought he saw in that bunker. “Makes sense, though,” he threw out disinterestedly, “that the Winter Soldier would turn people to icicles.”

Fury nodded and turned to the old man, whom he hadn’t introduced to Steve. “Dougie?”

Steve looked down quickly to hide his snort of laughter. On the screen Agent Carter appeared to be doing the same. Unaware, ‘Dougie’ stood to answer the question. His voice was deep and thickly accented, making it hard for Steve to understand him. “I have heard of nothing like this, not in Russia or anywhere else. Is it not possible that he manufactured it himself?”

“No one’s suggested that he has any particular technical skill,” Agent Carter put in. “He seems to receive upgrades, if you will, from government scientists.”

The old man agreed, playing with his scarf. “It used to be that way, yes, but since _glasnost_ he has been increasingly on his own. The government can no longer fund research into technology for assassins, _da_?”

“I suppose not.”

Director Fury, who had been pacing, swung back to the screen. “You should have known that, Agent Carter. Take better notes.”

“Yes, sir.” Her eyes grew hard even as she agreed, almost glaring at Fury. Steve raised both eyebrows; the girl had guts, he had to say that. Whether by accident or in an attempt to change the mood, Dougie continued. “Have you spoken to Natalia? She would perhaps be able to shed some light on more recent-”

“Agent Romanoff is working.” Fury cut him off, inadvertently answering one of the questions on the tip of Steve’s tongue. “We’ll hear from her when she gets back.”

Dougie nodded, stopping Steve from asking the other question: namely, why would Agent Romanoff have any recent information when she had been away from her home country so long? He guessed this was just one of those things someone would have to explain to him later, until Agent Carter piped up. “Does Agent Romanoff still utilize contacts in Russia, sir? I thought we shut down the Red Room ancillaries ages ago.”

Fury stared at his screen blankly. “Are you really asking me that? Didn’t you read any of the files I sent you?”

Steve might have backed off at that tone, but Agent Carter swung her hair like she didn’t have a care in the world. “No, sir. There hasn’t been time since I’ve been ordered to scan and organize all the old files first.”

Fury shook his head, disgusted. “Tell Crispin, from me, that he’s a freakin’ idiot. What does he think we’re going to use all that old stuff for if the Winter Soldier decides to go on a murderous rampage? He can get one of his peons to do the bookkeeping. You go read all Agent Romanoff’s reports, right now, and then come back. Maybe then you’ll have something useful to say. Unbelievable.” The Director pushed back from the table and stood, glowering generally at the room. “Rogers, go home and put a hot pack on your side. Gervis, I want a list of proposed treatments by the end of the day. Dougie, scrape up anything that could even possibly have something to do with this. I don’t want to hear from you” – he jabbed a finger at the screen – “until you’ve read those files. That’s it.”  

He strode from the room, Dougie following slowly in his wake. Steve looked over at Gervis, who shrugged again. “Mercurial,” he said, “with a large helping of Mars.” Steve nodded, which was fast becoming his default response. Agent Carter leaned back in her chair, pulling something off her wrist and wrapping it around her hair. “I wish I could just end meetings when people are stupid. Technically, though, the meeting isn’t ended. I need more information, Doctor, as soon as you can get it. And will you send me a copy of the list for Fury, too?”

“BCC,” Gervis said, inexplicably. “But yes.”

“Thanks.” She spun her chair to the other direction, for what reason Steve didn’t know. Her eyes were very serious and very blue. “And you, Captain Rogers? You will let me know if I can help you in any way?”

“Sure.” He nodded briskly, trying to project confidence. “I have your email.”

Her smile was quick and warm, the better because she was obviously less preoccupied than when they had last spoken. “Suppose you do. Well, I’ll let you gentlemen get to your work. Director Fury is not a man to be put off.”

Dr. Gervis stood, nodding at Steve. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, “as soon as I work out some sort of plan. For now, the hot pack is not a bad idea. I recommend a sack of barley.”  And then he left, leaving Steve to look down at Agent Carter. “I guess you’ll have time to eat now.”

“Raj isn’t back with my sandwich yet. I think he’s called Raj, at least.” She leaned to one side, giving him a view of her ear and shoulder, then returned. “Yes, Raj. He’s got his name in his books.”

She seemed like she was planning to stay, and he found himself grasping at her companionship. He didn’t want to go home and sit in the dark with a bag of barley on his side, trying to keep the past at bay. “How are you handling your new job?”

She sighed heavily, twisting her ponytail around her hand. “I’m handling it. It’s dull as paint, most of the time, but it’s hard to do all the same. War isn’t pretty, as you know, and this is so personal.”

“I know,” Steve said, remembering the pictures from Fury’s file.

“Aunt Peg says to stop looking at the pictures, but I can’t help imagining them now.” She ran a hand over her face before looking at him guiltily. “I’m sorry; it must be much worse for you. He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

He didn’t know what to say to that. If he said “no,” she would think he was crazy. If he said “yes,” he would be – it would be – “Listen,” he said finally, “there is something you can do for me. I know you have to read Agent Romanoff’s reports, but if you get a chance, read some of the reports from my missions. Get to know Bucky, not just the Winter Soldier. I would – it would mean a lot if I didn’t feel like everyone wanted to shoot my best friend on sight.”

She regarded him levelly, chin in her hand. “All right,” she said finally. “I can do that.”

“Thanks.”

Ivy couldn’t see his face on the camera, but that “thanks” told her everything. It was full of gratitude, but also, even more, relief. Captain America _needed_ people on his side – hadn’t that always been true in the stories? Going it alone was not his style. Well, she would join him. “You’re welcome,” she said, trying to get as much of a promise into her voice as she could.

The door opened suddenly, making her jump. “I got you chicken,” Raj said, brandishing a cling-film wrapped bundle, “That was all they had. I hope it’s…” His voice trailed off as he came around the desk and saw the empty conference room on the screen. “Are you taking the mick? Did Fury tick me off so you could chat to your boyfriend?”

She felt her face grow heated, making her speak sharply to cover the awkwardness. “Don’t be a twat.” She turned in his chair and glared at him, snatching the sandwich as she did so. “Don’t you recognise Captain America when you see him? Show some respect.” Facing the screen again, she adopted a dignified tone, hoping to impress Raj with her position. “I do apologise, Captain."

“No offence taken,” he said in a strangled tone, which she suspected was laughter.

“So I’ll look at those reports as we discussed, and get back to you when I’ve done?”

“Sure. Thank you, Agent Carter.”

“You’re quite welcome, Captain Rogers.” And with that, she exited the call and swept up her papers. “Thanks for the sandwich, Raj. I hope you can expense it.”

Raj frowned. “You can keep it, as long as you don’t kick me out of my office again.”

“I make no promises,” she said, still dignified, and left.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Many Messages are Sent

Steve returned home obediently, like a good soldier should, but refrained from putting a bag of barley on his side. For one, he didn’t know where he would hunt down a bag of barley, though probably the fancy market with the dim lighting would have something like it. For another, he’d _been_ sitting with heat on it since it happened, and the pain had only gotten worse. Instead, he’d flicked on the television, landing on a baseball game to take his mind off things. That was one aspect of modern technology he’d found easy to adapt to.

Less easy were the myriad methods of getting in contact with people. A ringing telephone was hard to miss, but he often overlooked the tiny buzz that signified “text messages”. In this case, he didn’t notice until the game was over and the regular noise of the vibration against the wall where his jacket hung drew him towards it.

pls come 2 med lab 7. Gervis.

He understood that these messages didn’t charge by word or letter, so he had yet to figure out why people never spelled things correctly in them.

Upon arriving at the SHIELD base and finding his way to Medical Lab 7, Steve was pushed in a chair and handed a large sheaf of papers covered with questions in a very untidy hand. “It’s a general health questionnaire,” an increasingly manic Dr. Gervis explained. “Fill it out while I’m talking.” He then launched into a run-down of all possible treatments for the condition; Steve got the impression the doctor was making things up as he thought of them.

“Doctor,” Steve asked when Gervis stopped for breath, “do you really think any of this will work?”

Gervis bristled, pausing to let the papers he was rifling through settle down around him. “Of course I think _all_ of them will work. Which is why I’m recommending them. But I don’t _know_ , so we need a back-up plan. Or, you know, twelve.”

Steve skipped past the questions under the heading “STDs” and let the doctor’s attitude slide. “Can I do anything besides sit in a chair with a hot pack?”

“You have to keep your heart rate down.” The doctor peered, frowning, at a paper Steve assumed to be one of his files. “Well, down for you. The faster your blood goes, the faster you freeze. I’d recommend bed rest for now.”

“Bed rest?” He had a vision of himself at ten, flat on his back with pneumonia for a whole summer. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Expecting an argument, he was surprised that Gervis shrugged. “You don’t have to report to me. If you want to risk the wrath of your boss-”

“Fury’s not my boss.”

“I didn’t mean him.”

Steve remembered Agent Carter, all business and a little terrifying. “I don’t think she’s my boss, either.”

“Whatever. Right now, it’s not serious enough for me to insist. You do what you think you can, and stop when it hurts.”

“Fair enough.” He rose and offered his hand, leaving the questionnaire on the counter. “Sorry in advance – I’m a bad patient.”

Shaking his hand firmly, the doctor rolled his eyes. “Gosh, you and everyone else in the agency. As long as you don’t threaten my manhood when I inevitably have to give you stitches, we’ll get along fine.”

Steve chuckled, but sobered quickly when he noticed Gervis’ pained expression. Grabbing his bomber jacket off the chair back, he made for the door, stopping as he remembered another question. “Can you send me a copy of that list, too? The one for Fury?”

Now typing furiously, Gervis didn’t look up from the laptop screen. “As soon as I transcribe it. I’d scan it, but no one can read my scrawl.” Steve left the lab without Gervis noticing; he was too intent on the email to pay attention. It didn’t help, of course, that sometimes even _he_ couldn’t read his scrawl.

**Preliminary List of Proposed Treatments**

  1. dosing – vitamins and antibiotics
  2. slowing the freezing process with heat
  3. radiation to kill the iced-over cells
  4. white blood cells to attack the freezing agent
  5. potential chemical reaction – will require more research



The email finally rolled into Ivy’s mailbox at one in the morning, where, if it had been a half-hour earlier, she would have seen it. She had been at the office until midnight, staring at the screen with wide-eyed horror as she read and re-read Agent Romanoff’s reports. “Reports”, she now understood, a kind euphemism for what they really were. She had known, of course, about Agent Romanoff’s assassin past; it was one of the agency’s favourite ironies that their most valuable agents came originally from the other side. What she hadn’t known was the depth of the darkness surrounding the Black Widow, nor her connection with the Winter Soldier that, Ivy now realized, Fury had hinted at. She had assumed that the agent had tangled with the assassin on some previous mission. The truth was something worse than she had imagined.

After that, she had hunted up one of Captain Rogers’ old reports, as he had asked. Trying desperately to purge the other images from her mind, she had thrown herself into a World War II mission, watching it unfold in her mind’s eye like one of Aunt Peg’s stories. She thought she had succeeded; the whole cab ride home she had been able to let her mind roam freely. Flicking out the light, however, snuggling under her comforter – that was a different story.

According to Steve, Bucky was a brave and heroic figure, ready with a joke and loved and respected by the men. Agent Romanoff’s files told a different story. A different story, even, than she would have guessed from her own experience with him. Ivy rolled from one side to the other, all she had learned that day tossing around in her head. Was it only that morning she had thought it significant that the Winter Soldier left four victims alive in 1953? And now – now –

Sitting up suddenly, she threw off her covers and switched on her bedside lamp. This was foolish. _Now_ wasn’t any different from _this morning_ ; the Winter Soldier was just as much of a threat in 2012 as he had been in 1997. But, as Director Fury had pointed out, what good would the old information do them now? Agent Romanoff’s…reports…were their most recent information, true, but they were still fifteen years old. Ivy pushed her feet into slippers and headed for her tiny kitchen as she mentally berated herself. “Getting overwhelmed is not the answer,” she said aloud, opening the cupboard to pull out a mug.

While the water boiled, she paced the kitchen back and forth. No, the problem was not what to do with the information. There was nothing _to_ do. The situation was essentially the same. Even their new knowledge of Steve’s – Captain Rogers’ – condition didn’t change her role in the drama. Fury was expecting her to be an expert, apparently; now she had more information, had been brought up to speed with what everyone else knew. Well, good! That meant her instincts all those weeks ago had been correct. So why was she stressed?

The electric kettle flicked off, startling her out of her reverie. Staring at the clouds of dark liquid swirling through the mug, Ivy came to her conclusion: she was stressed because she was becoming convinced that she needed to speak to Agent Romanoff, and she was afraid of doing so.

There.

Ivy frowned at the tea bag she dunked up and down in her mug. It was disgusting, but true. She was afraid of bringing all this up to Agent Romanoff, reminding her of her black past and dredging up difficult memories. It wasn’t that there was any concern that she would be compromised by the discussion; Romanoff was hard as flint, everyone knew that. Still, the nature of the conversation – awkward for her, a barely qualified agent, to bring it up to the legend. If there was any way around it – but no. There wasn’t. That was all.

Sighing, she shuffled out to the hall to get her laptop. She supposed it could wait until tomorrow, but she probably wouldn’t be able to sleep until the email was written.

_query_

_Dear Agent Romanoff,_

_I doubt you’ve heard my name, though of course yours is well known throughout SHIELD. Recently, Director Fury appointed me point for any information regarding the Winter Soldier, who (as you may have heard) has recently re-emerged. I was forwarded all your files pertaining to my investigation, but I believe there may be more information I require for a complete picture. If you have the opportunity, I would be very grateful if we might set up a time to talk. Email would be acceptable, though as I expect we may have to work together in the future, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet in person._

_Sincerely,_

_Agent Ivy Carter_

“Well, this is interesting.”

Clint looked from the window to Natasha, who was checking her email with her legs stretched out into the aisle in front of her. First class was really nice, even for these short trips across the Atlantic. “Look,” she continued, leaning over to show him the screen. “That must be Peggy’s niece. Nick does like to keep these things all in the family, doesn’t he.”

He scanned the message briefly, just enough to read the hesitation in every sentence. Poor kid. Took guts, though, to send a message like that, especially knowing what Agent Carter now did. She continued to live up to his assessment. “Will you meet with her?”

“We’ll see. Not right away, at least.” Scrolling through her inbox, she stopped on another email, frowning. “I’ve got something else to deal with. I’ll have to leave straight from the airport.”

“Will you be requiring my services, ma’am?” he asked, mindful to maintain their cover for the stewardess hovering behind them.

“No.” She clicked her phone off and stowed it in her jacket. “They’re sending someone to meet me.”

“No rest for the weary,” he said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.

“Who’s weary?” she asked, glancing away.

“Never you, of course.”

“Don’t know the meaning of the word.”

That, he reflected peering at her from the corner of his eye, was no doubt true. Since joining SHIELD, Natasha had made herself irreplaceable; her skills were in such high demand that she probably went on twice as many missions as he did. Anyone else, he might feel inferior. She thrived on it, though. If there was ever a person better suited to the job, he couldn’t think who it was.

Feeling his appraisal, she turned back to him and raised one eyebrow. Clint, not at all embarrassed to be caught staring, raised his in return. “You should email her back. Let her know you aren’t ignoring her.”

“I know.”  She sighed. “Later, though.”

“It took a lot of chutzpah for her to do that.”

“No doubt.”

“So she’s probably waiting for you-”

“I _got it_ , Clint.”

His point made, he moved on. “Anything in the news?”

She shook her head, sending her curls swinging. “A big banker is missing in Germany. Probably not anything serious, though. The BfV can handle it.”

Nodding, he settled back into the chair. “The _Bundesamt fur Verfassungsschutz_? Well, as long as the _Bundesnachrichtendienst_ doesn’t have to get involved…”

“That’s the last thing we want,” she agreed, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth. “Are you ever going to get tired of that?”

“Never.”

_RE: query_

_Agent Carter –_

_At present, I’m afraid my schedule is too fluid to set up an appointment as you requested. However, if you’d like to email me any questions you have, I will respond to them at my earliest convenience._

_\- Agent Natasha Romanoff_

> _FWD: query_
> 
> _Clint -_
> 
> _Satisfied?_
> 
> _The BND wouldn’t take a kidnapping case, anyway. It doesn’t fall under their Verantwortungsbereiches._
> 
> _\- Nat_

What Natasha said was true; petty kidnappings were not the province of international intelligence agencies. The BfV certainly could handle a simple disappearance, even that of a prominent banker. No one took his daughter’s babbling about a vampire robot seriously. Until, that is, the man turned up, head mostly bashed in, croaking “ _Captain America_ ”. Then the BfV realized something bigger was going on, panicked, and dumped the whole thing into the BND’s collective lap. With much patience the BND eventually discovered the entirety of the message and forwarded it, un-translated, to SHIELD Prime. “ _We couldn’t quite make it make sense,”_ the apologetic accompanying note explained.

When the message was translated, Fury called a meeting of his Winter Soldier taskforce:

**Stevie! Greenland, my birthday. It’ll be a gas! If you don’t come, you’re all wet. Bucky.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Clint Cooks

Clint left the briefing, mind wandering idly. To be honest, he hadn’t been paying very close attention for the last hour; the discussion didn’t require it. The Winter Soldier’s message was almost a non-message, for all it actually said. Yet another example of his predilection for making things more complicated than they had to be. Though, if Agent Carter was right and more messages were shortly forthcoming, it would be a different ballgame.

Passing the corridor that led more or less directly to his room, he paused briefly to consider crashing here and eating in the mess. If he hadn’t left the oven on at his apartment, he might have done so. His carefully planned meal would now likely require major revamping to be edible any time soon. Then again, he thought, catching a whiff of something behind him, SHIELD food was a stretch for _edible_ at the best of times. Even pasta would be better than that.

She came up beside him from the direction of the landing pads, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. Her own smell was almost covered by the scent of smoky air and spices; it must have been a deep mission. “Decided not to stay?” she asked.

“Why pay rent if I’m never there?” he posed in turn, continuing down the long hallway. “I left the oven on, anyway. How was Thailand?”

“Close – Bangladesh. Fine. Boring. What are you making?”

“Braised lamb with eggplant.” He looked at his watch, calculating back mentally. Two, three…it would be very close by the time he got home. “If it’s not dried out. The meeting went longer than I expected.” He didn’t anticipate spending two hours on a two-line message, particularly when he was only tangentially involved, so he had left the lamb in. He was going to have to book it to get it out before it over-cooked. Natasha matched him stride for stride as he weaved his way out of the building, following him home as he knew she would if there was a decent meal at the end. The sun was bright on their faces when they exited and they whipped out their sunglasses as nearly the same time. Hers, he noticed amusedly, were Chanel – obviously left from a mission since she didn’t buy name-brand goods for herself. They made their way to the car without speaking.

Driving in the city – never fun at the best of times – had become a nightmare in the months following the Loki Incident. The rubble clogging the area around the viaduct, coupled with the construction zones and re-directed traffic, turned what had been a quick commute into a 45-minute snarl. Sometimes Clint thought it would be faster to walk.

Natasha was silent for most of the ride, staring out the window as he weaved and shuttled his way through the marginally faster lanes. She didn’t speak until they had gotten stuck on one of the main arteries, his foot hovering between the gas and the brake. “So,” she said, “I haven’t heard this much whispering in the corners since The Week All Hell Broke Loose. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Scanning the road ahead, he saw a gap opening and screamed over before answering. It wasn’t always easy, trying to figure out what he could and couldn’t say; he had been mulling this one over the whole trip. “About what?”

She pulled out her seatbelt and shifted to face him. “I know about Rogers; Fury sent me the preliminary report. I couldn’t tell him anything, though. That’s new since my time.”

“They’re trying to figure out where he got the technology.”

Frowning thoughtfully, she considered. “I can’t think of who. But it’s been twelve years, Clint. If he wasn’t dead all that time, he probably has an entirely new network. Do they just want the technician for information?”

He shook his head. “Gervis isn’t very confident.” The young doctor was always jumpy, but Clint had noticed a level of desperation in the dark circles under his eyes. “If we can find the guy…”

“You can find the cure.” Natasha nodded. “Maybe. If there is one.”

He acknowledged the possibility with a head movement, then turned onto his street. Pulling up to the curb, he placed his parking permit on the dash and turned off the car quickly. “Dry, dry,” he said, checking the time and thinking regretfully of his lamb. “What a waste.”

She had already climbed out of the car and shouldered her bag, but leaned back in to shake her head at him. “Dry isn’t inedible.”

“For eggplant wrapped shanks it is.” He got out too, finding his door key by touch and letting them both into the main lobby. “Even stewed with tomatoes.”

Starting up the stairs, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “So make a pasta.”

She had always had a thing for his pasta, from the beginning. He smiled as he trailed up after her. “With lamb, Nat? Really.”

“Of course not. With the tomatoes and eggplant.”

“Maybe.” Actually, that would be good. He could make some fettuccini easily; showcase the vegetables with a heavier noodle. That decided, he turned his mind again to the more pressing issue: what to tell her about the rumors?

He didn’t know what they were saying; no one made casual conversation with him very often anymore. If he had to guess, though, people would be talking about what she already knew. Details would certainly be a mystery, but people couldn’t help noticing Rogers’ repeat visits to Gervis, and the Winter Soldier’s return wasn’t classified information. Fury just hadn’t wanted Natasha to know. There was nothing really to tell, then. The only thing that had really changed was how they were handling it. He didn’t consider the thing about Greenland worth telling. Not yet.

When they reached what she affectionately called “Clint’s aerie”, he undid the alarms and held the door for her, locking up again when they were both inside. “I’m taking a shower,” she said, “my hair smells like filth.”

He used the time well; the fettuccini was already in water and he was adding olive oil to the eggplant when she reappeared, toweling her hair dry. “That pasta machine was the best gift I ever gave you,” she said as she perched on one of his bar chairs.

“The best gift you ever gave yourself, you mean.”

“That too.” She watched him a minute, pouring the wine he had opened and left on the counter before speaking again. “I heard back from Agent Carter, but she didn’t send me any questions. It was kind of weird. I thought it was urgent.” He made a non-committal noise, concentrating on spicing the pan. Agent Carter had the flu when he saw her that afternoon, but that certainly wasn’t worth telling. Natasha spoke again, more directly. “Clint. Was there anything else?”

He should have known better than to brush it off. Sometimes he wished he could play dumb with her, but he always knew what she meant and she always expected him to. “I don’t know what the rumors are saying, but you know the only important thing.”

She swirled the wine in her glass casually. “So it’s not true that he has some kind of sick fixation and is planning to hunt us down and kill us one by one?”

“No,” he said quickly, spooning the tomato sauce over the eggplants. Of course that was exactly what everyone was worried about, but it definitely had not been confirmed.

“Clint.”

He didn’t have to look at her to know she had on her “don’t-give-me-that” face on.

“If I’m in danger, I have a right to know.”

“You’re not in danger.”

“ _Could_ I be?” He didn’t answer; it was a stupid question and she knew it. Realizing it, Natasha amended herself. “Are they worried about me? You can tell me that.”

That was not a stupid question, but he didn’t have to speak for her to understand the answer. Instead, he turned to the sink and drained the pasta. He heard her go quiet behind him, then take a gulp of her wine. “So they are, then. How bad is it?”

He could hear concern in her voice – not fear, she wouldn’t be afraid, but nervousness. He remembered the last time SHIELD had been worried for Natasha’s safety; they had grounded her for four months with a bodyguard and she had almost lost it. “Not like Nareva, Nat. Not yet.”

“How, then?”

Getting two white bowls down from the cupboard, he sucked in a deep breath and began explaining as he plated the meal. “There was a message for Steve. Part of one, anyway. Agent Carter thinks he’s done this before, or something similar. That time, it was the opening move in a series of killings. Rogers is an obvious target, and there’s…concern…that you might be as well.” Sliding her bowl to her and smacking down a fork, he spoke firmly. “That is _all_. No grounding, no guard. You’re just off the table for Winter Soldier missions. Which you were anyway.”

They stared at each other over the bowls, sizing the situation up. Clint knew she was trying to see if he was keeping anything else back; for his part he was watching to see if she would be satisfied with what he could tell her. After a minute her face relaxed. “If you do that to me again, Barton, I’ll twist your wrist.” 

Tension broken, he pushed his own bowl across the counter and came around to sit next to her. “Keep classified briefings classified?”

“No,” she said, twirling her fork in the pasta. “Treat me like I can’t handle it.”

He had to think about that one. Was that what he was doing? Certainly not intentionally. He trusted Natasha to behave like the professional she was. “If the situation was reversed,” he said finally, “and you had information about a potential but unconfirmed threat but it didn’t require any action from me-”

“You can be damn well sure I would tell you.”

“If it was Barney?”

She looked up sharply, startled by the casual reference to his estranged brother. There were some things they just didn’t talk about, and that was one of them. He poured his own glass of wine while she digested that idea, moving the food around in her bowl as she thought. “It’s not the same,” she said eventually, tucking her legs up underneath her and concentrating on the dish.

“It’s exactly the same.”

“He was part of the Red Room training; that was not the same as leaving you for dead when you were a teenager.” She jabbed fiercely at a chunk of tomato, unable to pick it up with her fork.

“Of course you’re right. Abandoning you after everything is not the same at all.” He was purposely vague; even now he didn’t like to think about her time with the Winter Soldier. The parallels were clear enough without details. “What he did to you was not the same as what they did to you. You know that.” She wouldn’t look at him and he wasn’t sure if she was really listening. “Tasha?”

“You’re right.” Looking up at him, she nodded once. “I wouldn’t tell you either. Not if I didn’t have to.”

“Well, then.” He lifted his glass to her in a silent salute before taking a drink. “But I won’t do it again.”

“Cheers,” she said quietly, finally managing to spear the tomato.

They ate in silence after that. Some people, Clint knew, would have felt a need to fill the quiet with babble, particularly after a raw conversation like they had just had. With Natasha, the silence allowed them to draw back and settle; they didn’t need words to move past hard things. For that, he was grateful.

Natasha emptied her bowl, unfolding herself from the stool to take it to the sink. She scraped the saucepan and rinsed it while he finished eating, enjoying the subtle lamb flavor. Finishing the dishes, she leaned her elbows on the counter and poured herself another swallow of wine. “Is Rogers grounded too?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bet he just loves that.” They both smiled at the thought, knowing already that Captain America was a man of action. He set his fork in his dish and leaned back in the chair, pleased. “It was good,” she said, agreeing with his thoughts, “but I would have liked the eggplant better chunked.”

He shrugged. “We do the best we can.” 

“I know,” she said. And he knew what she meant.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ivy Moves Up

Ivy felt like she was seeping liquid from every orifice on her face. Her eyes were watery, her nose runny, her ears clogged, and she had the unfortunate impression that she was drooling in her sleep. However, as she was no longer spewing sick every hour, it was time to get back to work. After the emergency meeting, she had requested to be given news of any kidnappings that matched the Winter Soldier’s pattern, along with any statements that mentioned vampires or robots. The pile of reports on her desk would be legion, unless the request for a clerk she had pecked out before falling asleep on her keyboard had, miraculously, been pushed through.

She made her way to the office, ignoring the dirty looks from her fellow Tube travellers, and took the lift all the way down to archives. Reaching the alcove where her desk stood, Ivy stopped stock-still. Not only were there no files on her desk, there was _nothing_ on her desk – no computer, no fake plant, no framed photo of Ivy at four with Aunt Peg. “Robbie!” she called, voice cracking, “where’ve my things gone?”

Her old friend trotted around the corner, hands outstretched. “O?h, girl, surprised I am to see you!”

“I wasn’t dismissed,” she stated, feeling tears well up in her eyes. Stupid head cold! “I was just out! I had flu!”

“Of course you were. But I thought they’d have told you – you’ve been moved up!”

“Moved up?”

“Your assistant came and moved everything up a few days ago.”

“Assistant?” Ivy knew she sounded like an idiot, but she kind of felt like one. To her sick brain, Robbie could have been reciting “Jabberwocky”. “Someone came and took my things upstairs to a new office. That’s what you’re saying?”

Robbie looked at her quizzically, brow furrowed. “Aye, exactly. They didn’t say where.”

“Of course not,” Ivy said wearily, and left Archives, patting Robbie on the arm as she passed him. After dragging herself to the first floor and battling the receptionist for her new office number, she took her fifth lift journey for the day and made her way to 6-Y. Fortunately, the door swung open under her hand; she had been concerned it would be locked and she would have to go upstairs again, and all she really wanted to do was sit down and try to get some air in her lungs.

She made for the desk chair like a homing pigeon, only hazily registering the low bookshelves lining one wall before grabbing the edge of the much nicer desk to navigate around it. Thumping into the extremely comfortable chair and blowing her nose fervently, Ivy took a deep breath and looked around, trying to put things in order. Her rubber plant was on the bookshelves, which were filled with the Winter Soldier archives, now neatly organized by year. Aunt Peg was on the corner of her desk; her old computer, she was surprised to realize, had been replaced by a new high-tech model. She leaned forward to joggle the mouse and noticed a note on the desk.

> Agent Carter,
> 
> As you can see, they’ve brought you a new computer. Everything should be uploaded correctly; contact IT if not. We left the archives for you, not knowing where you were in the process, but Chris is going through all those reports you requested. If you have any new direction for him, write me an email and I’ll pass the message along.
> 
> Maureen Wilbrahams
> 
> Information Assessment

Ivy had heard of the legendary department head, who managed more responsibilities than 95% of SHIELD would ever have. There was something odd, perhaps, in such a high ranking agent organizing a junior agent’s office, but Ivy didn’t feel up to figuring it out at present. There were more pressing matters at hand. Wiping her nose again, she tried to work up the energy to open her emails. She anticipated a million, assuming the mysterious Chris did not have a high enough clearance level to go through those as well.

Sure enough, a week’s worth of alerts and announcements queued her inbox. Ivy worked through them, and an entire box of tissues, for the next two hours. The ones marked “Requested Reports” from Miller, C she set aside to read after her medicine started having an impact. The rest she filed in their appropriate folders: Need To Know, Try To Remember, May Need Later, and Probably Nothing. When everything was sorted, she wandered down the hall to the kitchen for a coffee. Despite the confusion of the morning, Ivy already saw a benefit to this new arrangement: Archives didn’t even have a hot pot, due to the fragility of the documents. And while she couldn’t read Winter Soldier documents with her drink, she could and would read another photocopy of Captain Rogers’ WWII reports.

When she returned to her office, however, a young black man sat in her second chair, a sheaf of papers on his lap. He stood respectfully when she entered. “Agent Carter, ma’am.”

Ivy’s free hand moved to her hair elastic, though she turned it into a head scratch when she remembered what her hair looked like this morning. She was not used to being addressed as “ma’am” by anyone. “Yes. And you are?”

“Christopher Miller.”

“Ah, Chris,” she said, moving with what she hoped was confidence to her desk. “I’m glad to meet you. May I call you Chris?”

“You can call me whatever you want, ma’am.”

She paused before sitting. If he was her equal in rank, she could call him “Miller”; if he was higher, “sir”. He hadn’t given his status, and she had no idea how to address someone lower. “We’ll go with Chris, then.” He sat as well, looking at her expectantly. Setting her mug on the desk, she cleared her throat twice. She supposed he was here to report, if he was in fact her assistant, but she didn’t have a clue how these meetings were supposed to begin. She had never been on this side of the desk. Perhaps a bit of bridge building? “So,” she tried, “which department are you from?”

The young man wrinkled one eyebrow, but responded politely. “Information Assessment, ma’am. I just started there. I’m being trained by Agent Wilbrahams.”

“Very good. Agent Wilbrahams must think highly of you, to lend you out already.”  Well that was rubbish; she sounded like the Deputy Director.

“She said that yours would be a good task to learn on, ma’am. It requires a good lot of tools to do properly.”  Chris shifted in his seat. “Pardon me, ma’am, but have you had a chance to look at any of the reports yet?”  

“No, I haven’t. But I’m sure they’re very thorough.” She took a sip of coffee, thinking furiously. What next? The office! “Was it you who moved my things up here?”

“No ma’am. I believe it was the janitors. I did help putting the archives on the shelves, though.”

“Well, thank you. It’s exactly as I would have done it myself.” More or less, but a kind exaggeration never hurt anyone. Now for business. “I’ve caught up on all my emails, I think; it doesn’t appear that anything serious has happened as regards the Winter Soldier recently. Anything directly tied to him, I mean.”

“That’s actually why I came up, ma’am.” Chris flipped through the papers in his hand and selected one, placing it on her desk and sliding it towards her. “There’s been another message. If you had been able to read my reports, you would have seen a kidnapping in Innsbruck that seemed to have hallmarks…”

Ivy grabbed the paper, mentally kicking herself for wasting time on small talk. “When did this come in?” she asked, cutting Chris off.

“About an hour ago, ma’am. We’ve just had it translated and they sent me up with it.”

The message was even shorter than the previous one:

**We’ll meet up halfway. Good thing I know you’ll never leave Brooklyn.**

Whirling to her computer, Ivy pulled up a map of the world. “Where did you say it came from?”

“Innsbruck.”

Ivy had visited the Austrian ski resort on holiday with a schoolmate once, but she had the nagging idea that there was another reason the name sounded familiar. She traced a line across from both Austria and New York, meeting in the middle of the ocean. Moving her fingers upwards instead, she stopped on a spot in the middle of Greenland. “That’s in the exact middle of the country, if we take Innsbruck as a starting place. What’s up there?”

“Ice?” Chris suggested, shrugging.

“The interior of the country is essentially deserted, I know.” Ivy clicked on the map, zooming in on Greenland. Clicking again layered the image with various filters: population, climate, known terrorist affiliations. Not surprisingly, her screen remained primarily blank. “So it could be anywhere, almost. We won’t be able to pinpoint a location without more information. Assuming he doesn’t change his mind between now and then.” She glanced at her desk calendar, finding the date she had circled earlier. “And that’s nearly two months. I think it likely that he’ll move, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

Grabbing a tissue, Ivy blew her nose, forgetting Chris’s presence in the room as she thought furiously. This second message practically confirmed her theory, telling her that they could expect more kidnappings and more messages in the months leading up to James Barnes’ birthday. They had a date and a more specific location; they still needed a time and, no doubt, a warning to come alone. That would give them at least two more chances to apprehend the Winter Soldier before they had to think about sending Captain Rogers out for a parlay. And maybe there were more clues this time. Innsbruck was a clue, she knew it, if she could just remember where she had read it recently…

“Ma’am?”

Chris’s voice broke into her thoughts. He would know if there were more clues; at least, he would know where to direct her to find them. “You said there was a kidnapping that matched the pattern. When was that?”

He considered, eyes directed towards the ceiling. “Er…Tuesday? No, it was Wednesday, because it was Tuesday that the other reports came in – the vampire robot ones. Skiers in the Stubai Valley reported a creepy man lurking around the runs, and those words showed up in their descriptions.”

“And then a kidnapping the next day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The clue was right there; Ivy could see its outline behind her medicine-induced haze. She closed her eyes to concentrate on Chris’s words. Skiing? More than that: skiing in the Stubai Valley. Barnes skiing the Stubai Valley. That was it! Her eyes flew open and she raced over to the bookshelf, scrabbling through papers to find the report she had read before her illness. “Innsbruck!” she exclaimed, “there was a Hydra base in the Stubai Valley near Innsbruck during the war. Captain Rogers and Barnes destroyed it early on – before the Allies started bombing, I think. There was talk of using skis to get in but none of the Howling Commandoes knew how.”

“Odd coincidence.”

“It isn’t a coincidence.” Locating the file, Ivy sat back on her heels and began flipping through it. “It can’t be. He’s doing it on purpose. I’ll bet you anything the last kidnapping was significant in another mission I haven’t read yet. It was in Germany, in Berlin, maybe. Well, that’s obvious.” As she spoke, she was skimming the report. This message delivered, no doubt the Innsbruck mission was completed. However, there were still six or seven Hydra bases to pinpoint, along with other skirmishes; perhaps Captain Rogers would know more. She had her work cut out for her, but it was smaller than the whole world. Ivy snapped the file shut and got to her feet, pulling a tissue from her pocket as she put the folder under her arm. “Chris, new directions. Ignore any reports not coming in from Eastern Europe – rather, from places that were controlled by the Third Reich. I’ll send you a list of names to specifically look for once I’ve compiled it.” 

Chris wrote her instructions down with a pen he pulled from behind his ear, then looked up at her skeptically. “Isn’t that rather risky, ma’am? It’s only been two messages. How do you know he’s operating under any kind of pattern?”

“Suppose I don’t.” Ivy returned to her chair and swung around her to computer, pulling up her notes from Captain Rogers’ reports. Toggling back and forth between her document and an email message, she began making a list of all cities Steve mentioned. “Call it a hunch. I think I can support it, though, if anyone asks.”

Chris stood, sticking the pen back behind his ear. “No one will ask, ma’am, not at this level. Handlers can get any information they require. I’ll look for that message, ma’am.”

“Thank you very much, Chris,” she responded briskly, dashing off an email to Captain Rogers regarding any other missions of note. Coffee forgotten, head fluids forgotten, even Chris’s last words forgotten, Ivy worked on for three hours without noticing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Steve Goes For a Run

Steve sat on the edge of his bed and shook his head groggily. His table clock, after he snoozed it twice, said 5:47am. He had always been an early riser, but it used to be that he woke up rested. Since Gervis had begun his treatments, Steve felt like he could sleep another 70 years, easy. It was all “take these pills” and “here, have a shot” and something with a huge machine he didn’t understand. It was supposed to make him better, but overall, Steve felt what could only politely be called worse. Still, he was not an invalid, and he was determined not to behave like one. Heaving himself up, Steve padded to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of Wheaties. Like his Chuck Taylors and Budweiser beer, Steve had latched on to the cereal as a lifeline; the familiarity was a port in a storm. He took his breakfast of champions to the table, pulling up the shades to watch the sun rise over the scattered drawings and crumpled papers of last night.

He watched the sky lighten between buildings, mind roving. He wondered why the people across the street left their blinds open all night, why people didn’t bowl much any more, if he would ever feel comfortable grocery shopping. He wondered if Agent Carter had gotten his message, and if it had been helpful. That one, at least, he could find the answer for. He pulled his SHIELD-issued computer towards him, opening it to the same “Your message has been sent” notice from last night. There was a little flag, which he knew meant he had new mail; clicking on it opened a short “thank you” from Agent Carter. He responded quickly – “You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else.” – and went back to a now soggy breakfast. He had been only too glad to give her a list of significant places and missions; it made him feel useful. If there was anything he didn’t like, it was sitting at home while other people needed help.

As he was washing out his bowl, he heard an urgent _be-de-beep, be-de-beep_ coming from the other room. Not certain what it signified, he checked both phones and his alarm panel before realizing the noise was coming from the computer. A video chat? Wasn’t it kind of early? Must be something urgent. Steve ran a hand over his hair and clicked “accept”, unprepared to have Agent Carter’s face fill the screen.

“What are you doing up so early?” he blurted out before she had a chance to finish her “hullo”.

She smiled amusedly, fortunately not offended. “It isn’t early here. It’s nearly eleven. I was about to take my second pill of the day.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, hoping to cover his prior rudeness. She looked a lot better than last week, that was for sure.

“Yes, but still awful.” She propped her chin on her hand, taking a gulp of something from a giant mug. “One can only stay in and watch telly – television - so long, though, especially when there’s work to be done.”

“I know the feeling,” Steve said, casting a rueful glance at the television behind him.  “It doesn’t help when you don’t understand anything that’s going on.”

“No, I’m sure not.” Tying her hair up in a long tail, she appeared to be struck with a thought. “Have you tried old films? That might help.”

“I don’t plan on having to spend a lot of time watching movies for much longer,” Steve said, hoping it was true.

She nodded, a sympathetic expression crossing her face. “I haven’t seen a report in a bit. How are _you_ feeling?”

Grabbing a nearby pencil, he started doodling as he responded. “Fine.” That wasn’t a lie, but ‘good’ might have been. “The doctor is trying something new he hasn’t explained very well.”

“I’ve noticed that seems to be his _modus operandi._ You put up with a lot for brilliance, I suppose.”

“Is that what you call it?” Steve asked, grinning. “We used to call it bird-brained.”

She laughed and took another drink. “For your sake, I hope not. Have you been allowed out?”

“Not really.” He shook his head, concentrating on rounding the corners correctly. “I don’t have regular treatment times or anything. I want to get back to working clean-up later this week, though.”

She frowned, suddenly serious. “Did Gervis clear that? Only I know he was considering putting you on bed rest.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Perhaps it would be better for you to do something less strenuous, if you want to be useful. I’m sure we could think of something.”

Steve felt his hackles rise and had to force himself to speak calmly; you didn’t shout at a woman, even if she kind of out-ranked you. “He said I could do what I felt up to, and I think I’ll be fine.”

He could see that she was skeptical, but she wisely moved on. “I got your message and thought I’d see if I could speak to you. Where were you, exactly, in Italy? I can’t seem to find any SSR documents about it.”

Steve thought for a moment, shading the curve of a jaw line. They hadn’t told him where, exactly; it was considered safer if he didn’t know. Had he heard since then? “I’m not sure,” he said finally, “but Bucky was with the 107th. You could probably find out where they were.”

“I’ll put Chris on it.” She jotted that down. Steve outlined a collar before realizing what she had said. SHIELD had a way of dropping people into conversation as if he knew them, but he almost never did. “Who’s Chris?”

“My assistant. I have an assistant now.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling up at the edges. “Well, he’s just been lent to me, and I have to get my own lunch and coffee. It’s still rather fun. He takes all the reports off my hands so I can concentrate on coordinating the follow-ups.”

“Are you getting a lot of leads?” No one would tell him anything. He had thought that he was just been taken off of active missions, but it had turned into complete silence on the subject.

She sighed. “A lot of leads, but not a lot of follow-ups. It’s such a shot in the dark that the Deputy Director won’t spare very many agents.”

He knew it was orders, but she was making it too easy. Casually thickening a line, he spoke lightly to distract attention. “I could do some follow-ups for you. I’m not doing anything important right now.”

“I think we can manage it.” She attempted to pass it off with a laugh as she let her hair loose again, but there was a warning under her words.

He tried again anyway. “I really think I could help.”

This time, her voice was firm, without an ounce of leeway. She sounded, he realized, very much like her aunt. “I’m sorry, Captain Rogers. No. I know a little of what you’re feeling, but I can’t let you go against Director Fury’s express instructions and my own better judgment.”

And that, he knew, was that. He shouldn’t have forced it to that point; an order was an order. Still, it was a stupid order, a nonsensical order, and he had thought she might agree with him. Driving his pencil hard into the paper, Steve didn’t make eye contact with Agent Carter. If he did, he would probably embarrass himself by begging. Some response was required, though, so he fell back on the safe standby. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Captain Rogers. I appreciate that.” She paused and shifted in her chair, waiting for a response he didn’t give. “Goodbye, then. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else.”

“Any time,” he responded automatically, and clicked out of the chat. After sitting for a minute, glaring, he shoved back from the table and stomped to the bedroom. Stewing about it wouldn’t help matters. Maybe he would feel better after a run. He usually did. Lace up the sneakers, pull on the sweatshirt, keys in pocket, head out.

He skipped his usual warm-up, jogging down the stairs into the grey morning for some laps around the block. It was harder to run through the neighborhoods than it had been in his day – more people clogging the streets - but the idea of taking the subway uptown to run in a park was ridiculous. And running in a room on a conveyor belt, like those he had seen at SHIELD, destroyed the whole point for him. You ran to enjoy your freedom, to breathe fresh air, to clear your head. Not to look at a wall or a loud television screen.

As he loped through the streets, Steve took a deep mental breath. For the last three weeks, he had been cooped up, either at home or in a SHIELD infirmary, and he was beginning to feel suffocated. Everyone was tense and worried wherever he went, and no one would tell him why. But he had come out for a run, his first since the diagnosis, to forget all that. Instead, he turned his attention to the streets around him. Steve was continually surprised by how normal his neighborhood looked, with the area surrounding Stark Tower still a war zone. Before this whole thing happened, Steve had helped the volunteer crews with clean-up; as he had told Agent Carter, it was time he went back to that. He was feeling well enough, after all. Ignoring the subtle but ever-present pain in his side, Steve nodded his head firmly. And since they weren’t going to be using him for missions…

At that thought, Steve sped up, sneakers pounding the pavement angrily. Would there ever be a time when people wouldn’t say, “No, Steve, you can’t do this”? His whole life had been one restriction after another, a long list of things he wanted to do and couldn’t. This was just the latest, and one of the hardest – to know Bucky was out there somewhere, needing help, and to not be allowed to go find him and bring him in. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their decision; he did. Naturally, they didn’t want to put him in harm’s way if they didn’t have to. It was just that it was _wrong_.

He ran head down for a block, only to stop short as a sudden pain pierced his side. Too fast, apparently; Doctor Gervis had told him getting his heart rate up would exacerbate his condition. After looking up “exacerbate”, Steve got the point: until they found a cure that 100% worked, he couldn’t push himself too hard. And they hadn’t found one that even 50% worked yet. No doubt that was another reason he was grounded. He slowed to a light jog, only then realizing that he was completely out-of-breath. Steve veered into a nearby wall and leaned against it, wheezing heavily. It was just a little jog, not very fast or far; why was he gasping for breath like he was still asthmatic?

Catching his breath after a minute, he straightened stiffly and took stock of his surroundings. Since he hadn’t brought his phone and they didn’t have booths anymore, he needed to go home, get some water, and call Gervis. He shouldn’t be feeling this badly after four blocks.

By the time he reached home, Steve was panting and sweating, periodically stopping to rest by railings and stoops. He received more than one curious look as he made his way up his front steps and to the elevator. Pushing the up button, Steve sucked in a breath, hoping to calm the pounding of his heart. Something was very wrong. He hadn’t felt this shaky and weak since basic training.

The elevator bell chimed, doors sliding open silently. The man inside looked over his sunglasses at Steve, who would have groaned if he had the energy. “Well, you look terrible,” the man said. “Can’t they get you decent running gear, if run you must?”

Steve stepped inside the elevator and jabbed the button for his floor, unwilling to invite more gossip by having a conversation with Tony Stark in his lobby. Stark continued, switching topics without even a hello. “I tried calling your cell, but you didn’t pick up. So I thought, well, why not swing by?”

“How did you get the address?” Steve asked, not really caring.

Stark looked at him pityingly. “Please. If SHIELD knows where you are, I can find out. Oh, look, here’s your floor.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Includes Several Monologues

Wearily, Steve trailed down the hall, Stark following in his wake. As he fumbled with the keys, he wondered if there was anything he could say to get Stark to go away. Probably not. He opted instead for the silent treatment, heading for the kitchen and a glass of water as soon as he was inside. When he returned to the living room, Stark stood in its center, appraising everything slowly. “Nice,” he said eventually. “Perfectly vintage. They could donate to the Smithsonian.  ’Course your suit’s already there. The one with the wings.”

Hoping to look causal and not exhausted, Steve leaned against the doorjamb. “What are you doing here, Stark?”

The other man strolled over to the table under the window and began rifling through the papers. Steve tried furiously to remember what was there – just drawings of the city, he thought. “Oh, just checking in on the reconstruction. You know, of my big ugly building? I had a few ideas.”

“Sorry, I meant here, at my apartment, at” – he checked his watch – “7:00 in the morning. Didn’t figure you for an early riser.”

“I don’t let sleep patterns dictate to me.”

Typical Tony Stark, Steve thought in passing as he eyed the long couch. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know if you heard the buzz, but I’m putting on this thing, an exposition – it’s like a giant fair, with science-”

“I know what an exposition is,” Steve interrupted. “I’ve been to them before. Your dad used to put them on.” The Stark Expos had been famous, fantastic whirlwinds of pleasure and wonder. How many had Bucky dragged him to, either with a date or on the prowl for one? Too many to remember them all. Of all things in the world to stay the same…

“The old man always liked a show.” Stark’s eyes were dark and inscrutable as he examined Steve’s drawings, holding each one up to the light. “Some people say I get that from him, but they’re wrong. Shows just follow me; I don’t like them.”

Steve believed that as far as he could throw Iron Man. He took another sip of water, wishing fervently that Stark would come to the point soon. “So you’re putting on the Expo.”

“Pepper’s idea. I don’t know why; she usually hates the Expo, thinks it’s a gigantic drain of money. Agreed. But worth it.” He held up a sketch of Stark Tower shrouded in scaffolding, drawn on a lunch break at SHIELD. “I’m touched.”

If he didn’t sit down soon, he was going to fall down. He could feel himself wilting. “Is there a point to this, Stark?”

“Well, it’s for the city, really. Morale, and patriotism, and so on.” Stark shrugged. “Like I said, Pepper’s idea. But it has my name on it, so I’m expected to show up, bring the suit, you know.” Carefully avoiding Steve’s gaze, he zeroed in on another drawing. “Someone thought you might want to bring yours and help me open it. We heard you were pretty good at public speaking.”

Steve was flabbergasted; he didn’t know what to say. If history repeated itself any more, he would have to start looking over his shoulder for bombs. Was Tony Stark actually suggesting he bring the suit out to do a show? He was overwhelmed with an image of himself, standing on the Expo stage with Iron Man doing a dance behind him and singing lustily through the helmet: “Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American Way!” He clenched his jaw to dislodge the picture, only to have it replaced by a sea of grim soldiers in khaki. No. He couldn’t do that again.

Stark, apparently incapable of allowing silence for more than four seconds at a time, began again. “The theme – there’s a theme this year – is “We Built This City”. We’ve got tons of presentations lined up about the rebuilding process – kind of like a giant guilt trip. The publicity people thought it would be a good idea. Not that I can’t manage my own publicity, of course, but. And, I thought, since you aren’t doing anything…” He trailed off, leaving Steve enough time to feel offended before Stark casually twisted the knife in his ice--cold wound. “The people love the Star Spangled Man. You could be our mascot.” He held up the drawing Steve had done that morning and forgotten; a dark-haired beauty laughed out at them, a giant mug emblazoned with the SHIELD insignia in one hand. “ _This_ is Agent Carter? From the emails I thought she’d be a mannish battleaxe in her fifties.”

Of all the…with a sudden burst of energy, Steve strode across the room and snatched the paper from Stark’s grasp. Then he sat heavily in the wingback, shooting daggers with his glare. “Oh, so you’ve worked with her?” he asked, surprising himself with the bitterness that dripped from his voice. “What, did she sent you a letter and snitch on me? ‘Poor Steve can’t go on missions, can’t we send him on another tour?”

“A letter? What are we, ninety?”

Stark smirked at his own joke, but Steve was too worked up to care. It was bad enough that he wasn’t allowed to go on missions. To be relegated to a mascot, yet again? At the request of Ivy Carter? He would be damned before he would go back to using the suit for publicity stunts; he’d sit in his chair until it rotted first. And he could, too! SHIELD was not the boss of him. Realizing that, Steve began to smile grimly. “No,” he said. “You can tell whoever sent you here that I’ll find something else to do, thank you.”

Stark’s mouth twisted sideways, levity gone. “I’m hurt, Captain,” he said finally. “Not just because you assumed that I do what other people tell me, though that does sting a little. Mostly it’s because, when I try to do a nice thing out of the goodness of my normally narcissistic heart, I like other people to see that’s what I’m doing.”

The man did look hurt, something Steve hadn’t thought possible. He should have realized Tony Stark never did anything he didn’t want to. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it.

Stark waved it off, moving towards the door as he spoke. “No no, it’s fine. I mean, I just thought it would be fun for everybody to see you again. Get them out of the doldrums. And my father would probably rain curses on me from the Great Beyond if I didn’t try. But, whatever. Maybe I can convince Bruce, even if he doesn’t want to share his party trick.” Pausing with his hand on the door, Stark looked back at Steve. “And, I don’t know if you care, but I’ve never spoken to Agent Carter.”

“But you know about the missions,” Steve said quickly.

Stark made an “okay, yeah” face. “But like I said, I can know what SHIELD knows.”

“And this “nice thing” – did you hit on that before or after you knew about the ice block?” Steve didn’t look up, smoothing out the crumpled drawing over his knee. The silence, though, gave him the answer.

Finally, Tony spoke. “If you’ll take the advice of a man who is, kind of, older than you – though much, much cooler – you have to make something of this. You can’t just let it beat you.” He gave a short laugh as he opened the door. “Wow. Advice giving is so not my thing. See you next time aliens invade.” And then he left.

Steve sat in the chair a while after Tony left, staring out the window and thinking furiously. Tony’s suggestion, well meaning as it was, was out of the question. He was not a performing monkey. However, as he had done before, what was to stop him from taking off after Bucky himself? He knew generally what Agent Carter was looking for; he could scope out areas just as well as she and her new assistant. He had money, and time – he was amazed that he hadn’t thought of this sooner. Rising quickly, he set the sketch down on the table. Italy first, maybe. Pack the suitcase, taxi to the airport, someone there could help him get a ticket. And then he would find him.

Halfway through his packing, Steve found himself out of breath again, the dull ache in his side a stabbing point. He grabbed his side and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly to manage the pain. With Tony’s visit and his new plans, he had almost forgotten his run that morning, but apparently whatever was wrong with him hadn’t gone away. Before he did anything – much as he hated the idea – he needed to call Gervis. Wincing, he limped out to the front room and the phone. “Gervis?” he said when he connected to the doctor’s direct line. “I think I need to come in.” 

* * *

�����He dragged home ten hours later, thoroughly exhausted. Ten hours of tests and no answers; the best guess the doctor had was that the new treatment they were trying was affecting his blood cells. “Like chemo,” Gervis had not-so-helpfully explained. “without the barfing.”

“Can’t we stop the treatment?” Steve had asked. But apparently, the treatment appeared to be having an impact, and Gervis was hesitant to cut off a promising cure. “Just don’t do anything too tiring,” he said, “and sleep a lot.”

Unlikely, Steve thought as he stretched himself out on the couch. He had never been a good napper, even when sick. He eyed the book he was reading warily, not feeling up to the history of the polio vaccine. Instead, he flicked on the television and made his way to a documentary on the Cuban Missile Crisis. Thank goodness for the History Channel, or he would be completely out of his depth…though he didn’t understand why anyone would want enough pigs to fill a bay…

When he blinked back into consciousness, the room was almost dark and his home phone was ringing shrilly. He sat up, trying to adjust his eyes, just as it clicked over to the answering machine.   

“Steve? This is Ivy. I’m calling on your home phone because this isn’t SHIELD business. It’s…lord, I don’t know. Midnight, maybe. I’ve been thinking about our conversation all day and I want to apologize for how I handled it. You must be going completely bonkers, knowing what you know and not being able to change anything about it. I’ve read your file; I know you don’t appreciate being told you can’t do what you think is right. I’m sorry for that, and for having to be harsh about it. It isn’t toeing the party line, but I do think it’s a rubbish position for you. But, and I hope you believe this, I really think I can find Bucky, and I promise I won’t let them kill him without cause. I can’t say any fairer than that.” She took a deep breath, giving him space for her words to sink in. Steve could hear her hesitancy and yet her conviction; she was worried about saying this but was also completely sure of her position. He didn’t know if she was going to say anything else. Expensive silence filled the room.

“I think that’s all. Oh, er, Gervis left me a message about today’s tests. I was serious about finding you something less strenuous to do. Even if you can’t help with the rubble. We can brainstorm, make sure it’s something you want. I know that you’re a good man, Steve, and you just want to help people. There’s plenty still to do.

“That’s really all. Oh, only I was thinking about Alfred Hitchcock. I don’t know if you saw any of his films in the 40s, but he kept making them, and they don’t require a great deal of explanation. If you wanted. So that’s really all, I promise. I hope I haven’t used up all your memory. Goodbye.”

Steve got up and pushed the play button on the machine, then went to stand by the window as he listened through it again. He did believe that she was sorry for the situation, and he almost believed that she would find Bucky. There was steel in her spine; he hadn’t drawn her all those times without knowing that. But it didn’t change the fact that Bucky was _his_ best friend who needed help. If he let Ivy take over the hunt completely, wasn’t that a betrayal of their friendship? If he wasn’t fighting for Bucky, what did he have to fight for?

He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, looking out into the street. The light had gone. Most of the residents had not yet made their way home through the war-torn streets and their homes were dark, leaving only the orange glow cast by streetlamps in neat, even circles. Just then, a light across the street flicked on, illuminating the sign that had hung there since the attacks. “God Bless New York City”, it said; Steve had always found it curiously moving. Probably the people across the street didn’t believe in God, since it seemed like almost no one did any more. The sign stood for something else: the imdominitable spirit of New Yorkers, who would keep on come hell or high water. He had always loved that about this town. And yet – the sign was faded, curling at the edges. It looked weary, as though it was tired of fighting. So, Steve admitted to himself, was he.

* * *

 

��He tossed and turned all night, staring into the darkness. The next morning, he got on a plane and headed for London Heathrow.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which I Hope Clarifies Things

Ivy closed her eyes, but opened them quickly as she realized it offered no relief from the lines of text she had been staring at for three days straight. They appeared as if imprinted on her eyelids. Across the desk, Chris politely pretended he hadn’t seen her. “Just a few more,” he said, proffering another three folders. “Then we’ll be done with the –stans.”

Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, Ivy shook her head. And after the –stans, there were three more countries to comb for prominent businesspeople and bankers. It would never end. “No, I think we’re done, Chris. We’ve too little information to guess the Target’s next victim.” She stood, every muscle in her back aching. “We’ll just have to stick with our city surveillance.”

Chris also stood, gathering up the dossiers and piling them neatly. “We identified the last victim.”

“As a potential, along with twenty others in four cities.” She felt queasy remembering the battered form of the stock market mogul, dumped unceremoniously at her winter home in the Italian Alps. Last she had heard, the woman was paralyzed from the waist down. “And we can’t tail them all, can we? We haven’t the resources.”

Chris didn’t argue the point, knowing as well as Ivy did that the Deputy Director, who had to approve all agent assignments, was disinclined to act on Ivy’s suggestions. She had a few choice adjectives for that situation, but kept them to herself. Tucking the files under one arm, Chris came to attention. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

She made her way to her task wall as he spoke, pausing to consider before unpinning several papers. “No, thanks. If you’ll just have them pipe the surveillance feeds through to my desktop. Especially Krakow – that’s the most likely, I think.”

“Of course.” He left quietly, shutting the door behind him. A good egg, Chris, Ivy thought, feeling the weight of years between them. It must be two or three years. Plus whatever she had added metaphysically over the last few months. Sitting back at her desk, Ivy spread the documents out and leaned her head in one hand, stretching her back from side to side as she examined them. The first, the typescript of the four messages, she had memorized by now. The second, the list of places provided by Captain Rogers, had been analyzed to oblivion. She turned her attention to the third, the timeline of events, and pulled a blank calendar towards her to input the events chronologically. 

> _5 September: first abduction reported – Germany_
> 
> _8 September: first abductee found, taken to hospital_
> 
> _9 September: first message; meeting of WSTF_
> 
> _11 September: reports of man matching the Target’s description – Stubai Valley_
> 
> _12 September: second abduction – Stubai Valley_
> 
> _15 September: second abductee returned, second message_
> 
> _18 September: presumed sighting of the Target, Brussels_
> 
> _22 September: third abductee found in Brussels_
> 
> _23 September: third message_
> 
> _26 September: fourth victim abducted_
> 
> _29 September: fourth victim found_
> 
> _30 September: fourth message_

So far, so clear. But she _knew_ all this; she saw it in her sleep at night. No matter how she laid it out, the facts were the same. The problem, Ivy recognized clearly, was its bloody _neatness_. The Target had never been neat, even when doing a series of similar hits. None of this take victim Wednesday, return victim Saturday nonsense. It didn’t fit. And yet, it would be irresponsible to ignore the pattern, even on a decently supported hunch. Plus, she had no choice. If she didn’t pursue this course, how would she even begin?

Glancing up at her task wall, her eyes roved over the ephemera pinned in layers over a map of the world.  Maps, profiles, bits of reports and dossiers – all that information and she still couldn’t figure out what was happening enough to do more than respond. The details were simple enough: The Target was abducting and abusing financial giants across Europe, using their battered bodies to pass demands to his former best friend, whom he had injected with a deadly, incurable toxin. But there was no clear reason _why_ that was, no end game that she could uncover. Surely, if he wanted to kill Steve, he was doing it the cruelest way possible already? But what else could he want?

Ivy shook her head, realizing she would drive herself mad before she figured out the mind of a psychopath. Her task was simply to find him and keep him from doing any more harm – and that was quite enough for one person (and an assistant) to handle.

A blip from her computer informed her that Chris had done as requested and looped her into the feeds, which popped up on her screen automatically. It was silly, she knew, to watch them herself when SHIELD’s facial recognition system would identify the Target faster than she could. Still. She peered at the satellite feeds, squinting until she gave herself a headache and had to lean back in the chair with her eyes closed. She didn’t know what she expected to see. The Target would likely make himself invisible and they would just play catch up, again and again, until she had no choice but to send Steve to Greenland on what she was becoming convinced would be a very cold suicide mission. Unless the man had already decided to disobey orders and go after the Target himself, in which case he was already on a suicide mission. A man out of time, with a serious illness, wandering through Europe on the trail of a master assassin? It could only end poorly. It wasn’t out of the question, either; she had heard nothing either from or about Steve Rogers since the middle of September, and here it already was the first of October. And G-Day, as she had termed it, was fast approaching. She hoped that nothing had happened to him. She’d like to give him a piece of her mind.

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie, but wasn’t worth moving. “Come in, Chris!” she called, one arm over her eyes to block out the light. Perhaps he had finally brought her some coffee. Wouldn’t that be a dream?

The door opened just a crack before a voice that decidedly did not belong to her assistant spoke. “I’m not Chris, but may I come in?”

“Captain Rogers!” Ivy sprung to her feet, wondering wildly if she had somehow conjured him into her office. If she had, though, he probably would have looked sicker, possibly smaller. Instead, he appeared no worse for the wear, hale and hearty as ever. A sudden surge of anger mixed with her relief. What gall he had, to show up as if nothing had happened! Even if nothing had actually happened. Finally finding her voice, she gestured to her guest chair. “Of course. Please do.”

Acknowledging her with a dip of his head as he entered, Captain Rogers ignored the chair and stood stiffly, chin thrust out at attention. He didn’t say anything. Ivy let the silence stand for a minute, face titled towards him in an invitation to speak. He obviously wanted to. Besides, it was his turn. When another minute went by in silence, she cleared her throat and offered an opening. She wasn’t unwilling to meet partway. “I, er, didn’t expect to see you, Captain. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve been visiting some friends for awhile. I have to go back soon but I thought while I was here…” He faltered and took a breath. His gaze flickered over to the task wall, then rested on a patch of the concrete floor as he started over. “I got your message. I came to talk.”

Oh, that message she had agonized about for a whole day over two weeks ago, with no response? She bit back a sharp retort and sat down, skewering him levelly with her eyes. If he had come to talk, let him do the work. At least he had the grace to look sheepish. “I had to think through it,” he said finally. “With the other things that happened that day, I didn’t feel like I could respond well.”

“Is that supposed to be an excuse?” she asked before she could catch herself, instantly hating the shrewish tone. She wasn’t his superiour to chide him, and she certainly wasn’t his wife to nag him.

“No,” he responded just as quickly, lifting his eyes to meet hers, “it’s the beginning of an apology. I’m sorry. I should have gotten back to you before now.”

She made her tones clipped, trying to strike the right line between firm and harsh. “Yes, you should.”

“Right.” He looked back at the floor and clasped his hands behind him. “So, sorry. Again. I was a dope.”

She felt a smile begin to creep across her face in spite of herself; his attitude of a small boy being scolded by a nanny was so at odds with his decidedly manly form that it was difficult to stay really mad.  “Dope doesn’t really mean that anymore,” she said, beginning to relent. “While I might agree with you on the sentiment.”

“I’m not up to date on slang yet,” he said, still looking at the floor. “Apparently, I’m not too good with phone etiquette, either.”

“But business etiquette?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. “Surely in the Army, you couldn’t go two weeks without responding to messages?”

“Official messages, sure,” he agreed. “But that wasn’t SHIELD business.”

Touche. It wasn’t a life or death matter, after all; she had just got her feelings hurt. And he had apologised like a man. So why hold out? “Fair enough. It’s forgotten, yes? We’ll begin again.” Gesturing to the chair again, she offered a real smile. “Won’t you sit down?”

He did so, rubbing his hands on his knees as he spoke. “Glad that’s done. I didn’t figure it would be that easy.”

“What, you expected me to be an unforgiving hard-nose?” she teased, only to be surprised by the panic that flooded his eyes.

“I thought you’d be – I just meant – that’s not what-”

“At ease, Captain. It was just a joke.”

Relaxing back into the chair, he offered a half smile. “Sorry. I’ve been told I’m not very good at talking to women.”

“I’ve heard that.”

 _The best man I ever knew was bloody awful at talking to women_ , Aunt Peg had told her over and over. _It’s what he does, not what he says, darling._ Only later had she put two and two together; Aunt Peg hadn’t talked about Steve Rogers by name very often when Ivy was small. Not until he had re-emerged, safe and sound and still young, had Ivy learned that Aunt Peg’s lost love was _the_ Captain America. And now, here he sat in her office, obliquely referencing something she had been told all her life. It was surreal.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, breaking into her thoughts. “Um, you aren’t busy, are you? I don’t want to take your time from something important.”

She glanced at her computer screen, where the surveillance footage from the Krakow train station played on. “I’m not doing anything vital,” she said, “nor anything that can’t be done better by a computer. Such is the way we live now. It’s a strange and complicated life.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice!” he agreed fervently.

“I was actually just wondering what you’ve been doing lately, how your treatments are going.” It was a stretch, but not much of one. And it sounded better than “I thought you could be lying dead in an alley in Naples”.

“Oh. I, uh, actually haven’t had any treatments in a while.” He looked down at his hands, then back up to her. No doubt seeing the disapproval she felt flooding her face, he quickly added “I’ve been laying really low, staying quiet. I came over two weeks ago to visit my friend from the War and I haven’t moved since. I feel fine.”

Again with the mention of his friend from War! Ivy had tried, ages ago, to place which one that may have been. With the exception of Aunt Peg, though, all his old comrades had already passed away. She nodded, using the time to consider which route to take. Ask about his friends? Or probe more deeply into his feelings on the Target? “Where did you stay?” she asked finally, choosing curiosity over professionalism.

Steve raised both hands, palms up. “They live outside of the city somewhere. I took a train in. I kind of remembered where this place was.”

“You stayed with them?”

“Yes.” She was about to ask what kind of nursing home had facilities for guests, but he added “their daughter was there too.”

Ah, living at home with a grown child and, no doubt, a nurse. Nice, if you could manage it. With Aunt Peg’s past, it had only made sense for her to live out her days in a SHIELD-operated nursing home. Ivy visited when she could; it was as pleasant as could be expected, but she always felt that everyone there had already died. Her poor aunt. Falling apart, while the man she loved stayed the same.  Glancing at the photo on the corner of her desk, Ivy cleared her throat. Time to change the subject. “Well, I’m glad to hear you were safe. I had thought,” she said carefully, “that you might have gone hunting for Bucky.”

She watched his face blanch, and he moved his jaw back and forth. Apparently she had hit close to the mark. He wasn’t lying, though; she had enough training to recognise that. Whether he was feeling convicted or apprehensive, she couldn’t tell. “You weren’t planning on it, were you?” she asked when he didn’t respond.

Rather than answering, he stood suddenly and went over to her task wall, jamming his hands in his pockets as he examined her efforts of the last month. She should stop him, she had to; if he was planning to go rogue it would be aiding and abetting to let him see all that information. She stood, aware that he was ignoring her, and began to plan out what she would say to Fury. A sinking feeling of dread filled her stomach, but she managed to keep her voice steady as she asked a final time. “Captain Rogers. I’m sorry it came to this, but I must ask you formally: are you planning to go after the Target yourself?”

He swung around to face her, crossing his arms in a reflection of her own posture. “That depends.”

“On what?” she shot back, mind racing furiously to figure out what kind of bargaining tools she was authorised to use.

His gaze was firm, his form like granite. “On if you can convince me I don’t have to.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which They Reach an Agreement

It sounded like a challenge, but Steve meant it to. Every single fiber of his being went against the idea; if he was going to abandon Bucky to the impersonal force that was SHIELD, he was going to be absolutely sure they would do it right. With no claim on his actions, they owed him that much. She said nothing, narrowing her stare slightly as she watched him. He stayed firm. “It might be classified,” she said finally. “Perhaps I’m not allowed to tell you anything.”

He shook his head ‘no’. “You would keep your door locked.”

“Perhaps it’s a secret from you,” she threw out, but he knew that wasn’t true either. She would never have let him in here with her notes all over the walls.

“We both know that’s not true."

“Well, it may be,” she sighed, sitting, “but it _is_ true that nothing has been said either way. Still, I’m lead officer, and it’s up to my discretion what information I share and with whom. So.” A strand of hair fell from her bun and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear. “Convince me.”

Looking back at the wall, he swallowed a testy response. He didn’t have to convince her if he didn’t want to. He held all the chips in this conversation. With this information, now imprinted on his near-photographic memory, he could walk out of this office right now and hunt down Bucky himself. But, glancing at the straight, determined figure behind him, he knew he wouldn’t do it. All this work plastering the walls spoke volumes, not just the maps and the timelines but the biographies and the pictures from his Army days. His doubts now seemed harsh and kind of ridiculous. All this, and he still thought he needed to be the one, personally, to find his friend?

Then he caught a glimpse of something under a timeline of something from 1957: a newsreel still, capturing himself and Bucky bent over a typographical map in the back of a truck. Bucky was speaking, the look on his face a familiar “are you _crazy_?” that Steve would give anything to see. That was it, he realized. Maybe she would understand that. “I’m not sure what I can say to convince you,” he began slowly. “Once, you told me you’d read my reports from the war. Did you?”

“Yes. Most of them.”

“But what they don’t tell you is what happened before. When we were just two kids running around Brooklyn. I, uh…I used to get in over my head a lot. Bucky was always there to get me out.” He glanced over at the wall; a different image leapt out at him, then another. She had found a lot of good pictures of them. “The way I see it, he’s in over his head now. If I’m not the one to get him out…”

She picked up a pen from her desk and toyed with it. “I told you I could find him. Did you not believe me?”

“Almost,” he said, sitting back down. “But I need a little more.”

Under her gaze, he felt like a bug pinned to a card. It was all he had to tell her. He didn’t know if it was enough. Then her eyes softened, and she nodded slowly. “All right. Take down one of the maps, and I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

Doing as she asked, he pulled his chair forward and spread the map out on the desk. Four red dots marked “Victim” covered several places he remembered from his own map of Hydra factories; blue and green squares marked several more. She shuffled through several papers she had on her desk and pushed one over to him. “We’ll start there. These are the messages we’ve received so far, and these,” pointing out each of the red dots with the pen, “are their origin points.”

She worked through her logic step-by-step, bringing forward pieces of information and estimates and historical facts to support her conclusions. It made sense: Bucky was intentionally targeting people in cities that had been significant in their working relationship, which narrowed down the place he still had to hit. Watching those closely should provide results, and soon. Steve bent over the map and listened to her explanations carefully. Though she hedged her sentences with “I think” and “it seems”, he could tell she had done steady, solid work over a long period of time. Looking up at her as she traced the points of comparison between their mission in the war and ‘the Target’s’ course now, Steve reflected that if the world was fair, she would get him. But then, if the world was fair, he would probably be dead.

At the end of 45 minutes, her already low voice getting progressively huskier, she came to a stop and leaned back in her chair. “So, there you have it. Have I convinced you?”

“Even if you didn’t,” he said, leaning back as well, “it would be terrible for me to make you talk any more.”

She smiled, spinning her chair from left to right. “I’m all right. Did you have any questions?”

Yes, several. Some of them he didn’t want answered. But somehow, he doubted she would believe him if he professed to be completely satisfied; better ask something innocuous. “Why businessmen? And women. Business -men and -women.”

Quirking an eyebrow in amusement, she shrugged. “We don’t know for sure. It may be because it gains attention; it may be a leftover Soviet program. You know how they are about capitalists."

He made an agreeing noise, though of course he only knew from hearsay. “And none of the – the beatings were fatal?”

“No.” Her eyes darkened, and she glanced up at a picture on the wall behind him. “Although the latest one – the victim isn’t expected to recover fully. Her spine. She’ll live, but she’ll have to be in a wheelchair.”

“I’m sorry.” He made a mental note to find out who she was, go see her when this was all over. Steve tried to imagine beating someone hard enough to break their spine, but couldn’t. You would have to be really out of control to let yourself go like that, even if you had a huge metal object implanted in your arm. And you couldn’t have much of a moral compass left. “Still,” he said, grasping at straws, “he didn’t kill them. That’s a good sign, right? For an assassin not to kill people.”

“Maybe.” She toyed with the edge of a paper on her desk. “Or maybe it’s crueler. Before the Sabbatical, he did some pretty awful things. We thought he might have mellowed out, but…”

He didn’t want to fill in the blank, but he couldn’t just leave it hanging there. _But maybe he got worse_. And if so, what did that mean? What did you do to a man who would cripple innocent people for a personal matter? The question tumbled out in spite of himself, the one question he didn’t want to ask because he didn’t want to know: “So, if you find him, with the facial recognizing or whatever you use – what then?”

She didn’t even skip a beat, clearly having anticipated that he would ask this at some point. There was almost a hint of relief as she answered, the words flowing as if she had practiced it. “We’ll send in agents, who will apprehend him. Ideally, they’ll capture him alive and bring him to the base for detainment, until we get the information we need.”

He didn’t look at her as he asked the next question. “And in the worst case scenario?”

There was a painful pause before she responded, speaking quickly. “Well, we’d have to eliminate. But no one wants that, Steve, it’s the last resort. He’s got information SHIELD wants.”

He didn’t know what else he had expected. No matter how much Steve believed his old friend was trapped in the Winter Soldier somewhere, he had to accept the fact that SHIELD might not have the luxury to prove him right. Sometimes, there were just no good options. He stood, feeling a need to move around. The room was too small to pace fully, but he walked the two steps to the door and back before asking the follow-up question. “How likely is that?”

At least she didn’t pretend not to understand. “I can’t answer for everyone, but it’s unlikely for me. And, I believe, for Director Fury. At this point, killing the Target condemns you – it would take a lot to outweigh that.” Her blue eyes were serious, but she smiled again. “You’re pretty special, you know.”

Ducking his head to look at the floor, Steve fought back the uncomfortable squirm that always accompanied that remark. People said that, but he knew, deep down, it wasn’t true. No more than anyone else. Not more than even one person. “There are plenty of people worth saving.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. But no one like you.”

“I’m who I am because of him.”

His statement hung in the air, mushrooming out until he could almost feel its weight pressing down on them. He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t even known that he thought that. Agent Carter picked up her pen and started fiddling with it again, her cheekbones reddening as she looked anywhere but him. Neither of them knew what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

“So much apologizing today.” She didn’t look up. “No, it wasn’t fair, but I don’t think you meant to do it.”

“I understand,” he continued, “that you have to do things you’d rather not sometimes. Not that the ends justify the means, but-”

“Look.” She stood abruptly and came around to the front of the desk, pushing past him to face the project wall with her shoulders squared and her hands clasped behind her. Steve, backing towards the bookcase on the other wall, was struck with a weird sense of déjà vu. Not looking at him, she began to speak firmly, but earnestly. “This will never work if you don’t want it to. I think I can find your friend. I believe that I can do so in a way that will give you a chance to save him. I promise that I will act according to what I judge to everyone’s best interests. The question is- ” she turned and looked at him keenly, stretching her hand, palm up, into the space between them. “The question is: will you trust me to do what is right?”

Staring at her hand, Steve felt that he had just been issued a challenge of his own. He had come to answer that very question, but faced with it point blank, he didn’t know what to say. His gaze shifted from her hand to the wall behind her, which showed her dedication; the papers they had gone over together proved her plan was a good one. But his real question, the one that ate away at him constantly, there was no test for. Then he looked into her eyes, wide and blue and waiting, and he just knew.

“Yes.” Taking her hand in his own gingerly, he was surprised to feel a shock as their palms touched. “I’ll do that. But you have to promise not to leave me out of it again.”

“I promise. Thank you, Captain Rogers.” She placed her other hand on top of his and shook them both twice firmly. Steve felt a warm ooze spreading through his chest and smiled, suddenly feeling like he had a partner, for the first time in a long time. She smiled back at him, then dropped their hands and dashed around her desk. Opening a drawer as she sat on the edge of her chair, she pulled out a lightweight scarf and began draping it around her neck. “And now that’s settled, we can go get coffee.”

Steve blinked, suddenly at sea. “Do you always go to coffee after these things, nowadays?”

“No, but my throat’s dry as a bone.” She reached up and did something so her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, instantly changing her entire appearance. He thought she looked younger, somehow, but also more confident. And prettier – definitely prettier. As she dug around under her desk, she looked up at him through long eyelashes. “And coffee’s nice, when a friend drops into town. We’ve got the classified bits out of the way. You won’t mind if I dash to the loo to change, will you? They’ve got a policy against going up in our uniforms.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which They Go To Coffee

Steve waited patiently while she did something in the bathroom – it looked to him like she just put a skirt over the suit and added a jacket, but what did he know about women’s clothes – and trailed her up and out of SHIELD-B. A brisk wind blew the ever-present clouds away from the sun, warming the streets below. Agent Carter turned her face to the light as she spoke. “We’ll have to go out a bit. They don’t want us to frequent cafes too near, in case people ask questions.”

“Won’t you be needed back?” he asked.

“I’ve left a note on my door for Chris. He’ll call if there’s anything. You can walk awhile if we don’t go too fast, can’t you?”

He nodded, willing to go along with whatever she said, still trying to work his way back from the rapid mood shift. One minute they were settling a business agreement of deep personal significance, the next wending their way through London streets in search of over-priced coffee. Maybe he should chalk it up to “modern times”, but he kind of thought Agent Carter was trying to change the air. If she hadn’t suggested coffee, he admitted to himself, they might still be standing in her office staring at each other.

Agent Carter turned a corner, heading him off, and directed them off the main road. “I go this way to clear my head,” she explained. “I love the city, but it doesn’t always refresh me – the buses and the paper sellers and the people on their phones.”

“I could never live anywhere but the city, but I know what you mean,” he said. “I usually go out early in the morning, when I don’t have to worry about all that. As much. New York is always busy.”

She tucked her hands in the pockets of her jacket and neatly dodged a lamppost. “I imagine it gets rather tiresome for you. Do people stop you often?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, to sign their autograph books. Or take pictures. Or whatever they do to famous people.”

He shuddered at the thought. “Not anymore. They didn’t get any pictures of me without the-” he waved his hand up and down in front of his eyes – “the mask thing. Or SHIELD commandeered them all. I’m not sure. I think they figured Stark was enough publicity for a superhero team.”

“Do you see any of them? The other Avengers, I mean.”

“Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff, sometimes, in the halls. Thor went back to wherever he came from. I heard Doctor Banner was with Stark for awhile, but I think he’s in India now.” Steve shrugged. “It’s been pretty quiet lately.”

“Stark is in New York, isn’t he?”

He glanced at her sharply, but she seemed more interested in the park they were now passing than in his response. “Sometimes. He’s working on the Expo.”

“That’s exciting. I hope they don’t have any trouble this time.”

“He’s, um…he’s asked me to speak.”

“On technology?”

There was a quiver of laughter in her voice, but she managed an admirably straight face. Steve laughed for her, realizing the irony for the first time. “I think I understand technology better than most men my age.”

“Twenty-seven?”

“Ninety-four.”

She did laugh at that, forging the way through an intersection, the illuminated STOP sign giving her no pause. Steve had to keep himself from hurrying her across, though a quick check showed no cars in either direction. In New York, jaywalking would get you killed. “So what are you doing?” she asked once they were safely on the other side. “If not speaking on technology.”

“He’s got this idea that he wants it to be for New York, after everything. Someone thought it would be a good boost if I would open it with him. Put on the suit, give a speech, build morale. But…” He paused, feeling again the vaguely nauseous sensation in the pit of his stomach. “I haven’t said I’ll do it.”

“Why not? I would have thought it would be right up your alley.”

“Me and alleys haven’t worked too well, historically.”

She appeared to be considering, then acknowledged his point with a shrug. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to do it. But I think you should. If it’s really for the people.”

“I’m not sure he does anything ‘for the people’.” Steve knew that wasn’t quite fair, but he didn’t like the way this was going. “Besides, I can’t see how I would help.”

“You never do,” she said, craning her neck to read the street sign they had just passed. “But you still raised bond sales 10% in every state you visited.”

“I had heard that.” And he didn’t thank her for bringing it up.

She pointed ahead, changing the subject yet again. “There’s a decent place. We could get a scone or something too, if you need to sit for a minute.”

“I’m fine,” he responded shortly, before recognizing his tone. No need to be mean about it. “Sorry. I feel fine, but we can sit down if you want.”

Eyeing him from her peripheral vision, she strode down the sidewalk and spoke quickly. “You know, you can’t just bristle up at anybody who mentions it. We’re only trying to help.”

“I know.” And he did, really. It was just that he, himself, didn’t want to think about it more than necessary. And he did feel perfectly fine, now – the crisp breeze was good for his lungs and his side didn’t hurt at all. Well, no more than normal these days.

A warm gust of coffee-smelling air blew past him as he held open the café door for Agent Carter, who thanked him with a nod and moved to stand in line. “Don’t get the muffins,” she said. “They’re dry and the bits are ancient. But the scones are good.”

“So we are sitting, then?” he asked, scanning the menu board as he felt the coins in his pocket anxiously. It used to be that you could get coffee for a quarter; now, with all the frills and the exchange rate, he didn’t even want to think about what it would cost. His fingers found a round two-pound coin and he relaxed a little. There was enough to treat.

“Well, yes.” She looked up at him, almost rolling her eyes. “It’s a pity to come all the way down here and then turn straight around and walk back. Also, we need to talk about some other things and it’s so much more pleasant here than in my office.”

 _Some other things,_ he thought, sounded ominous.

She ordered an ordinary coffee with milk and an orange scone; he took his black, like always, and chose a coffee cake to be polite. After a small tussle, she agreed to let him pay, ceding to his mid-century mores with a good-natured eye roll. They took their ceramic mugs to a table at the back, where Steve sat gingerly on the tiny chair and tried to keep his elbows from sticking out into the aisle. Agent Carter didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, popping a piece of scone in her mouth and following it with a sip of her coffee. “So,” she began, “if you’re letting me take over your job, what are you planning to do?”

Steve took a gulp of his own drink, then had to keep himself from coughing as the boiling liquid seared its way down his throat. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been asking himself that very question, even before this all happened, but he hadn’t expected to be ambushed with it over drinks in a café. He took a bite of coffee cake to buy time, chewing slowly. “Isn’t catching up on seventy years of world history enough for one guy?”

“Some guys.” Cocking her head to one side, she took another drink. “But those are the guys who are happy to sit in a factory making screws.” He ducked his head, acknowledging her point. She continued, returning to her original train of thought as if he hadn’t answered. “Because you have to do something. Not only will you go stark raving mad trapped in your flat all day, but it would be a complete waste. And you don’t strike me as a person who approves of a lot of waste.”

“No,” he agreed, “I’m not.”

“Well, then.” She spread her hands out in front of her and looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear what she no doubt expected would be a brilliant plan. Strategy, she would know, had always been one of his strong suits. He would very much like to astonish her. Instead, he rubbed at a smudge on the table. Her voice probed gently, not letting him get away. “Captain Rogers?”

What had he just been thinking, about her determination? The smudge gone, he looked up, not seeing a point to hedging. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to make myself think about doing anything else. I just decided today for sure.”

“Okay.” She nodded slowly. “I can appreciate that.”

And then she ate some more of her scone and didn’t say anything. Steve picked crumbs off his cake with a fork, chin in his hand. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? The silence stretched out uncomfortably. He shifted in his chair, almost fell off of it, cleared his throat. “So,” he began finally, “maybe I should have gotten the scone. This is like Army food.”

She pushed her plate towards him, gesturing to the partial scone still sitting there. “What about veterans?”

Apparently, he was going to have to get used to being ignored. “What about them?” he asked as he broke off a chunk of the pastry with his fork.

 “You could do things with veterans – go see them, advocate for them, raise money. Like that.”

His face hardened and he set the fork down, scone uneaten. “No.”

“You don’t like veterans?”

She was speaking lightly, but he could hear the underlying disapproval at his quick response. It sounded bad, he knew, but what else could he say? Veterans…all those old men who had fought in wars he didn’t even know, who looked at him with eyes accusing him of being young and strong when they had given more and ended with less. He represented all that they had lost, and he didn’t see how his presence would help them. Not at all. “I like them fine. Veterans don’t usually like me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is,” he said firmly, putting the bite of scone in his mouth as a punctuation. After swallowing, he explained further to stall some of the questions he could see she was gearing up to ask. “The really old ones, the ones from my war, they think I’m making the whole thing up. And the next group, from…what was that war, the really long one?”

“Vietnam?”

“…they don’t believe in anything Captain America stood for. The rest don’t even know. Well,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, “they _didn’t_ know. I can’t give anything to them. All I can do is make them…” he paused, looking for the right word. “Sad.”

He expected her to argue back again, but she dropped her eyes to her nearly empty mug and bit her bottom lip. She was thinking _something_ , he could tell, but he didn’t have a clue what. Another project? Another question? As she looked back at him, he steeled himself for what ever she planned to throw at him next.   

“I’m going to get another coffee. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you,” he said, good manners kicking in to cover his surprise.

She nodded, got to her feet, and took her mug from the table. Brushing past him, she stopped and placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, trying and failing to ignore the warmth spreading from her hand as she spoke, voice quiet and low. “May I ask you something?” She hesitated for a minute, then asked in a rush, “Is that why you’ve never come to see Aunt Peg? Because you’re quite wrong, you know. She wouldn’t be sad to see you.”

As she regarded him levelly, Steve felt the question strike home like Joe DiMaggio had slammed it straight towards his conscience, leaving an oily trail of guilt streaming behind it. Despite his best intentions – despite advice from his advisor and comrade in arms – despite the fact that he had finally begun to feel okay in this new world – he had never been able to work up the guts to see Peggy Carter again. It wasn’t right, he knew that. She deserved more than pretending that she was dead like everyone else. But he just didn’t know if he could give it. Staring at her niece, her protégé, Steve expected to be held responsible; he deserved it, he thought drearily. But Ivy Carter’s gaze was not accusing so much as regretful, like she too was sorry for all that had happened. Why, he didn’t know. He would have felt more at ease if she had been angry. “Agent Carter,” he began, not knowing what he was going to say. Later, he realized he didn’t even know who he meant his words for.

Before he could stammer out anything else, a tiny horn blared out three notes, paused, and repeated it. She removed her hand from his shoulder as if shocked, stumbling over her own words as she felt around her various pockets. “My phone – it must be Chris-” Locating it, she punched a code into the screen and answered briefly, her whole body posture apprehensive. “H’lo, Chris? Did you pick him up?”

A male voice on the other end of the call said something quickly, to which Agent Carter replied, “Gone already? How can you know that?”

“Bad news,” Steve heard the invisible Chris say clearly before continuing an inaudible explanation that made Agent Carter’s face whiten the longer he continued. After a minute, she rapped out “Where?”, followed by a word nice women didn’t say in his time, and covered the phone speaker with her hand. “I’ve got to go back to the office. Something has happened and they need me there.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said, standing quickly. “Maybe I can help.”

She laughed shortly as she brought the phone back to her ear. “I doubt it. He’s…well, I can’t say here.” And she strode towards the door, moving at a speed he knew would hurt him to maintain all the way back to SHIELD-B. Still, he followed her as fast as he could. He wasn’t going to be left out again. She had promised.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Things Take a Turn For the Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a brief, non-explicit description of a dead body and a slightly longer discussion of a dead dog. Be warned.

The kid stood when he and Agent Carter entered her office, holding out a slim manila folder. “Here’s the reports and the pictures, Agent Carter. The new message is on top.”

She stalked past the offered file to the map on the wall, rifling through the papers surrounding it on a hunt for something. Steve nodded to the other man, who he assumed was her assistant Chris. It was all he could manage, gasping and holding his side as shards of freezing pain stabbed through his stomach muscles. They had made their way back almost at a run, unable to find a cab to bring them even somewhat close to base. Then it was six or seven staircases and a mad dash down the hall to the office. He felt wobbly in the knees and kind of like his coffee cake might be making a reappearance.

Agent Carter spoke without turning around, having located a thumbtack and pressing it into the large map in the center of the wall. “Chris, can you find a chair for Captain Rogers? That run wasn’t good for him. And where are the stickers?”

Chris, who had dropped the file on the desk and begun moving the instant she spoke, stuck his head back in the door. “Top left drawer. I didn’t move any of the papers you had down.”

Agent Carter nodded distractedly, dashing to the desk and back to her maps without looking at either man. Steve lowered himself into the chair Chris had vacated, breathing heavily. Taking several deep, slow breaths to manage the pain, he relaxed back into the cushioned seat and tried to keep himself very still. _Freeze to stop the freezing_ , Gervis had said, _keep that heart rate down!_ Once the trembling stopped, Steve opened his eyes and began to examine the photos Agent Carter was now pinning up on the board. In the images, a middle-aged homeless man in a beanie lay on his back, eyes closed, not unlike any homeless man in any city of the world. Except this one was dead. Six or seven bullet holes riddled his body, blood seeping into the nest of newspapers that had been his bed. Nearby, an emaciated yellow dog was huddled in a heap, shot in its sleep. Seeing that, Steve felt the sick feeling return.

Just then, Chris came back into the room, carrying a folding chair and a glass of water. He handed the latter to Steve and unfolded the metal seat, pulling it up to the desk and leaning over the map Steve had examined with Agent Carter that afternoon. “This is completely outside our predictions.”

“I think that was rather the point,” she responded tersely, “or did you not read the message?”

Steve’s eyes darted to the photocopy of the note, scrawled on the back of a receipt: _Call this me tagging Home Base. You’ll never find me that way!_ “Home Base!” he exclaimed involuntarily, looking to Agent Carter. “Where did this happen?”

Chris answered for her. “Bristol.”

“Not New York?”

“No,” the younger man said.

“Of course not,” Agent Carter said, stomping to her own chair, “that would make too much sense. Follow the pattern. This hit – this hit is just toying with us.”

He could see why she said that. None of the hallmarks of the previous incidents, which she had so carefully cataloged for him earlier, were present. It was a homeless man, not a business leader; England, not Europe; a shooting, not a beating. He would have questioned that it was even the same thing, if not for the taunting note. That was unmistakable.

“Well, you couldn’t have guessed it,” Chris said matter-of-factly.

“No, but I knew it was too easy.”  She buried both hands in her hair and sighed, resting her elbows on the edge of her desk. Steve noticed tense lines around her eyes, but the rest of her face was calm. Sighing again, she shook her head. “But we had nothing else to go on, and no resources even if we had. The Deputy Director wasn’t going to cough it up for a hunch.”

Steve recognized that tone of voice: the resigned voice of bureaucracy, of things failing through no fault of your own. “It’s not your fault,” he said, hoping that didn’t sound as patronizing as he was afraid it did.

Chris agreed, nodding his head. “Like you said, nothing about it matches the pattern. He hasn’t killed anyone since this started, nor used his gun at all. Except-” He gestured to Steve. “But that wasn’t a real bullet.”

“True,” she said, “that is odd. Maybe be felt a need to escalate the violence.”

“Or maybe he felt safer with an anonymous victim,” Chris suggested, at which she snapped her fingers and began “Or maybe-”

“Maybe he didn’t shoot him at all,” Steve said, standing and examining the pictures closely. He heard Chris’s noncommittal “mph”, but Agent Carter’s chair creaked back and she asked evenly, “Why do you say that?”

“The dog.” It was hard for Steve to look – there had been a yellow dog that was the neighborhood pet when he was growing up – but he put his finger on the image and spoke confidently. “It’s starving to death. It was shot, humanely, in its sleep, after – a lot after – this guy died. You can tell by the blood.”

“So?” Chris, not Agent Carter, asked.

Steve returned to his chair. “So, isn’t it strange that someone butchered a man and put the dog down gently?”

“Why couldn’t someone else have shot the dog?”

Agent Carter’s voice surprised them both. “Because a person who would put a dog out of its misery would report a dead body. At least, it seems like a possibility. Have them perform an autopsy, Chris.”

The young man jotted down a not, pausing with his pen in the air. “Then, will you want me to continue with the same tags? If this is a new pattern…”

She was shaking her head before Chris even finished the sentence. “I don’t think there’ll be another pattern. That’s done, now. We’ll have to have a new set of criteria.”

“And more resources?” Chris asked, eyes glinting with the first sign of humor Steve had seen from him.

Agent Carter didn’t think it was amusing, only rolling her eyes as she turned to her computer. “I’d like the police report as well. And if you can get me an appointment with the Deputy Director, I’ll adore you forever.”

Standing, Chris capped his pen and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get on it straight away.” He brought his heels together in a SHIELD version of a salute, nodded his head to Steve, and left quietly. As the door shut behind him, Steve felt an almost tangible dullness cover the room. He looked to Agent Carter, who stared back at him bleakly. “Nice kid,” he said, trying to combat the silence. “It must be nice for you to get a little help.”

“Chris does what he can.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that; it seemed to be hiding more than it revealed. Typical. “He seems pretty capable.”

“Oh, as far as he goes,” she agreed, “but that isn’t very far if you don’t have the proper contacts. And he doesn’t. And neither do I.”    

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m just talking to myself, I suppose.”

Steve considered that a moment. He didn’t really know what all her job entailed, but he could see how it would be difficult to get things done without the right support system. From the several mentions of “more resources”, he got the impression that she and Chris had been doing what they could on a shoestring, making do with what they could manage to get their hands on. Maybe it was information, maybe it was technology, but either way, that they had come so far on their own was incredible. What could they do with more? Maybe… “I might have some,” he said slowly. “And, you know, there was that thing where I helped save the world. I might be able to get you some help.”

Her eyes filled with a relief he found surprising. What was she so grateful for? It was what anybody would do. “If you could.”

“Well, I’ll be honest – I’m not sure it would be what you need.”

“Honestly, Captain Rogers, I’m so glad to hear you’re still letting me handle this, I couldn’t care less.”

That surprised him even more, and he said so. “We shook on it, didn’t we? Something happened you didn’t expect, but that happens to everyone.” Smiling ruefully, he repeated himself for emphasis: “everyone.”

“But my old plan isn’t going to work now.”

“So?” He shrugged easily. “You’ll come up with a new one. You came this far without help. I think you can do it again, but I’d like to help you this time, if I can.” Smiling, he added, “you know by now I’m not a sit-at-home kind of guy.”

 “Yes, I think that’s obvious.” She laughed, then grew serious and said, “Thank you, Captain Rogers.”

He leaned forward, offering his hand. “Partners?”

She didn’t even hesitate, placing her hand in his and shaking it firmly. “Partners.”

“Great,” he said, feeling his smile spread across his face. “Great.”  

She grinned back before turning again to her computer, unlocking the screen to pull up something he couldn’t see. “I’ll be in touch, if I need anything you may be able to help me with. And I’ll keep you updated this time, and if Fury doesn’t like it he can take it up with me. I’ve a few things to take up with him, anyway.”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll run the other way.” Steve stood, recognizing that he was being dismissed. “Good luck. We’ll get him soon.”

“I certainly hope so,” she said, preoccupied with whatever she was looking at on the computer. “Goodbye, then.”

Out in the hall, Steve zipped up his coat and took a deep breath, not relishing the prospect of all those stairs. Surely, somewhere on this floor there was an elevator. Better not bother Agent Carter, though; she was busy doing her job and he needed to leave her to it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, only to pull them out again clutching a scrap of paper he didn’t immediately recognize: the receipt from their coffee earlier. And with that, Steve felt his high spirits crash to the ground. Her questions came flooding back to him, still answerless, highlighting his sad state of affairs. Agent Carter, he thought, looking back over his shoulder, had a lot on her plate, but at least she had a clear direction in life.

But maybe, he realized, he could have one too – he would just have to work a little harder to find it.

It was as he was trudging up the stairs, not having seen the elevator, that it hit him, and he spun back on his heel and hurried back to her office. Opening the door abruptly, he met her startled look with an apology. “Sorry to burst in, and I’m sorry I didn’t have the answer earlier, but-”

“Captain Rogers.” He screeched to a verbal halt, arrested by her cool tones. Her gaze was inscrutable as she spoke. “Captain Rogers, will you do one thing, for me?”

“Yeees,” he agreed, warily.

“Don’t come in here apologizing again. I’m getting rather tired of it.” Trying to keep a stern expression, her mouth made an up-and-down squiggle before allowing itself to break out with a smile. He relaxed, glad she wasn’t really upset. “What am I supposed to say to that?” he asked.

“Nothing. What did you burst in here to tell me?”

“I wanted to say – sick kids.”

Her forehead wrinkled and she cocked her head to one side. “What about them?”

“That’s what I’d like to do. To keep busy. I…” He remembered his own childhood, spent tucked up in bed with medicines and humidifiers. “I know what they’re going through.”

He could tell the idea pleased her, though she only said, “That will be excellent. Let me know how you get on.” 

“I will,” he promised, and closed the door.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is Totally Epistolary, Because I Am Weak

Dear Agent Carter,

            When I got back to New York, none of the SHIELD brass were here. The secretary at the GO – that stands for Ground Office, I think – wouldn’t tell me where they went or when they would be back. When they do, I think I can set up a meeting with Agent Hill about getting you some help.

            Gervis says my time away from the treatments didn’t do too much damage. He still hooked me up to a machine and pumped me up with two tons of goop. I had to take a cab home and didn’t move for four hours. It was strangely familiar. But I’m fine today, so I’m going to call the hospitals Gervis recommended. Maybe someone needs volunteers. There are so many of them, I feel pretty confident. Do kids still like clowns? I saw a clown one time and I still remember it for some reason.

            I’m going to try a couple other leads. I’ll let you know if I get anything.

Sincerely,

Steve Rogers

*******************

_Captain Rogers –_

_I’m in dire need of some actual, physical information, actually. Chris and I have nearly made ourselves blind pouring over the reports and we haven’t come up with one likely lead. The problem is, of course, that I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m looking for first place. Do I tag hallmarks of pre-Sabbatical hits? More dead homeless men (but do you realize how many of them there are)? Or, of course, something entirely new, as he seems so determined to keep us on our toes?_

_Right now I’m trying to track down logistics. He has to get around somehow, doesn’t he? So either he’s getting money from someplace or he has contacts who help him. He hasn’t got time to walk, for heaven’s sake. Where is all that happening?_

_Sorry, that got away from me rather. The short answer is I’m not sure, except a team of people and at least two undercover field agents. We can only do so much with the video feeds, and that completely eliminates the knowledge gained from the unsavoury elements. I’m making a run down to Bristol later to see what I can dig up, but I don’t hold out much hope._

_Unfortunately I have always been afraid of clowns and am therefore unable to tell you if children as a whole like them. It’s odd since everyone in this business pretends feelings from a living, but I don’t like not being able to tell if they’re happy or sad._

_Ivy Carter_

*******************

Dear Agent Carter,

            I am pleased to report that children as a whole do like clowns, and those who don’t change their minds quickly when they see how funny they look with red noses. There was a little girl, maybe three years old, who wouldn’t give hers back. Juggling appears to be universal.

            What you’re doing makes sense. I had a couple other ideas. When we were hunting down HYDRA we kept very close tabs on Schmidt’s old war buddies, Zola’s lab assistants, things like that. Most of them were dead ends but there was a couple of times we got leads from them. Is there anybody like that you could find? Also, Bucky was really awful with money, but he was really good at bumming rides and he could hop a train slicker than an oil derrick. I’d be surprised he got around the straightforward way all the time. I don’t know if either of those suggestions helps, but it’s worth a try.

            When I went for my treatment today the secretary said she thought Agent Hill might be coming back in the next few days. Gervis wants to see me two more times this week so I’ll keep checking.

Sincerely,

Steve Rogers

_*********************_

_Captain Rogers,_

_That information about transport gives us some more tags to hunt through, so I’m not sure if I should thank you or not. Chris is looking properly dead and I think my hair is falling out. Let’s see if it brings results before I decide. Bristol was a wash; apparently the medical evidence places the time of death in the early morning hours when no one legitimate was around, and the police haven’t been able to track down anyone illegitimate to question. By now any clues are probably long gone._

_As for your other suggestion, that is a fairly common technique but unfortunately the Sabbatical has thrown a giant wrench into that plan. In the last fifteen years, all the Target’s known associates have either been killed, captured, or escaped one of those two fates by disappearing where we can’t find them – except one, of course. I’ve sent an email to Agent Romanoff but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I’ve also put in a request for access to some of the contacts we’ve still got in custody. I’m not sure who pushes that through but I doubt there’s anything you can do there._

_I hope there’s nothing very wrong with you that you need four treatments in ten days. If I get a spare minute at a somewhat decent hour I’ll call Gervis and get him to explain it but in the meantime do please let me know if anything changes. I’m not sending you to Greenland if you’re not up to it._

_Lord, that was a bad sentence. Think positively! I’m not sending you to Greenland at all, because we’ll get him before it comes to that. We’ve still got three weeks._

_This has already gone on long enough, so I’ll just say briefly that I never would have guessed that you can juggle. The mental image of you juggling in a clown nose made me laugh out loud, which I haven’t done in probably two months. So, thank you._

_Ivy Carter_

_********************_

Dear Agent Carter,

            Of course I can juggle! A kid who can’t hit or jump or run has to learn something to keep himself busy. I would say I am better at it than magic tricks, but not as good as drawing. I’m glad it made you laugh. The kids thought it was hilarious, especially when I let the balls fall on my head.

            There is nothing more wrong with me than there was before. Gervis says he’s experimenting with dosage to combat something metabolism something hyper yap yap yap. I don’t know. I can’t really make myself care. On the days I don’t have treatments I go to the hospitals and spend time with children who are in more pain and more danger than I am. They aren’t even the really sick ones! There are some I’m not allowed to go near because they could catch a germ that would kill them. Compared to that my little ice cube is nothing. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather not catch my death of ice, so I will go to the treatments and take my medicine like a good little boy. But as long as I can get around and feel more good than bad, I don’t have any reason to complain.

            The receptionist wouldn’t tell me where Agent Romanoff is either, and I can’t find Agent Barton. He won’t always say, but he usually has some idea. Still no sign of Agent Hill. I guess it’s not much use to have contacts if you can’t get in touch with them.

            This is the second time you’ve mentioned “tagging” reports. I’m not sure I know what you mean by that. Is it like flagging them? I was never a spy, so all I know is what I picked up from books and movies. (By the way, thank you for the recommendation. I watched _North by Northwest_ on the television. It was great.)

Sincerely,

Steve Rogers

*******************

_Captain Rogers,_

_If all you know about spying is from books and films, you don’t know anything about spying. Don’t feel badly; we do it that way on purpose. Tagging is a bit like flagging in that it pulls out items for our attention, but it works differently. It’s rather like a much more advanced Tumblr – which, actually, I hope you don’t know anything about. Basically, Chris has set up a computer program that pulls out reports with information we might need, using a series of key words. Of course, this still gives us a boatload of reports to pour through and takes a great deal of time. By the end of it I often want to fall in a heap and cry. But, as you say, since I am healthy and in full possession of my faculties, such as they are, I’m not too badly off._

_Thank you for asking about Agent Romanoff. I hadn’t meant for you to do that. Honestly, I’m not sure what she can tell me that I don’t already know, but I’m pulling at threads here. There hasn’t been one word from the Target since Bristol. I’m expecting at least one message before Greenland, but he’s been very careful at hiding his tracks. He may as well have gone through a portal into another world._

_Chris has gotten me an appointment with the Deputy Director tomorrow, miracle of miracles. With any luck I won’t need you to use your clout with Agent Hill. I think if I can just get a little more clerical support and access to the Target’s old contacts I’ll be able to push it through. We already know a lot of places he isn’t; if we can just get a lead on some places he might be, then…_

_Oh, I don’t know. I’ve only ever been Chris before. What this situation really needs is a high level managing agent, someone like Montgomery or Sitwell or, if he was still alive, Coulson. It requires so many skills I’ve just never been taught. Sometimes, Steve, I remember I’m just making it up as I go along._

_Wish me luck._

_Ivy Carter_

_******************_

_Captain Rogers –_

_It’s a no-go with the Deputy Director. Apparently he doesn’t have any personnel to spare, which is such a misreading of the situation that it makes me want to punch something. Also, I haven’t been in my position long enough to merit the raise in clearance I would require to gain access to the contacts._

_I literally do not know how he expects me to find out anything with the resources he’s allotted me. Luck? A magical fairy? Perhaps the Target will just turn himself in?_

_Anything you can find out, I appreciate._

_Ivy Carter_

_******************_

Dear Agent Carter,

            I’m sorry to have to tell you bad news, but Agent Hill is unable to help with this at all. She has no authority to overturn the Deputy Director’s decisions and Fury is busy saving South Korea. She’s not willing to bother him. I did try to explain, but she says that while she doesn’t usually understand his methods, Director Fury hasn’t made a personnel mistake since Lawrence Welk was on tv. Whenever that was. I think it was a compliment, or at least something to encourage you. Fury has faith in you to get it done – so do I, for what it’s worth.

            I know I can’t do much to help you – maybe you could send me some of those reports to look at? I also left a message for Stark. He seems to be able to find out anything he wants to. At least we can get a location for Agent Romanoff, if you still need her.

            You should be getting a package shortly. It’s in a manila envelope and cardboard. I didn’t want you to worry that it might be that message from the Winter Soldier.

            Again, I’m sorry.

Steve

_******************_

_Steve,_

_Your package was a complete delight. I wasn’t sure that Chris could even smile, but he couldn’t help himself when he saw the juggling clown picture. I’ve propped it up on my bookshelf for when I need a good laugh. The other drawing, I can’t thank you enough for. I particularly like the caricature of the D.D. as a toad. I had never heard that you could draw, but it’s fantastic, really._

_No news on my end. This is just a thank you._

_Ivy_

*******************

Dear Ivy,

            You’re welcome. I thought the clown drawing would make you laugh, but Chris was a bonus. How did he get so serious so young? The other one I drew after our first run-in but I didn’t know how to send it to you before now. Maybe you didn’t really need it then. The frog was a recent addition, but I was happy with the way it turned out.

            I’ve been drawing as long as I can remember. When I was little and we had a radio I used to draw pictures of what I was listening to. The kids draw pictures of television shows they watch or sometimes books they read – comics, too. You should see the ones they do of Iron Man and the Hulk. Stark wouldn’t be very appreciative, but I think they’re great. They send a lot of them home with me, so I’ll send you one of those next if I can. I don’t think I have any now, except the one that is mostly my shield, and you can’t have that one.

            Speaking of Stark, he got back to me today, finally. I guess he’s busy with work, or whatever it is he does all day, because it took him a real long time to not say very much. Agent Romanoff is on an undercover mission so secret they didn’t write it down, so she probably isn’t checking her email. He didn’t see when they expected her back. Agent Barton is also out of town right now. Apparently, the only two SHIELD affiliates in all of New York are me and Stark – Lord help us if there’s an emergency. Stark did say that he knows from personal experience that Romanoff is a prompt responder when she isn’t busy killing people and that she was the second-best assistant he ever had. I have a feeling there’s a very long story there, but I’m not sure I want to ask.

            He told me that he’s still looking for someone to open the Expo. He is nothing if not persistent. Or possibly self-centered.

Steve

_********************_

_Steve,_

_Well, I think you should do the Expo, so three cheers for Tony Stark! I hope he badgers you about it until you agree. It would be a really good thing, and I don’t think it’d be at all like what you’re thinking. Have you been watching Stark lately? Everything he’s doing is flashy only in its scale. Perhaps it’s his girlfriend or maybe it was Loki, but his press is night and day what it was in the past. Dancing girls would be out of place now._

_Well, that’s a dead end for the present. It’s probably for the best; since you didn’t tell me anything important I don’t have to take official notice of the fact that you had someone hack into our secure system (another time, say “a source” and I’ll pretend I don’t know). I should have guessed she would be in the field; the elite agents rarely hang around base. I always thought it was so glamourous, jetting around the world, using different accents and hair colours, saving the day. It seems real life tends to be more drab._

_I won’t say I don’t enjoy it, though. I never wanted to be a base agent, but it’s exciting, in it’s own way. Every time I think of a new angle on the situation, a spark goes up my spine – “maybe this one!” I say. Then, of course, the actual working out beats it out of me. Right now I’m sitting in one of the surveillance labs scanning through footage from the cities we know the Target’s been in, trying to see if there’s any consistency to how he comes in. It’s two in the morning, and I’ll be here another two hours, until someone comes in with a higher priority assignment. Never mind that we’ve only got a week and a half til Greenland. Chris and I are snatching at any tools we can, and we’ve come up with plenty of viable options. The problem is, of course, that we can’t nail him down to anything particular._

_The nearer G-Day comes the more I’m beginning to think that this was the Target’s plan all along – to tease us along then drop off the face of the earth. It seems odd that we haven’t had a “come alone or else” message, but perhaps it’s a given – or perhaps he just doesn’t care. We’re moving forward on forming a strategy with only the information we have, as it’s looking like it will be needed. Do you think Director Fury would let me borrow a plane? It would be more cost-efficient than building a temporary base for that short time._

_I would adore drawings of Iron Man. Do they ever draw pictures of you?_

_Ivy_

******************

Dear Ivy,

            They do. They also draw Captain America, who, if you can believe it, still has a series of comic books dedicated to his adventures (though they aren’t about me anymore). There’s one little boy who has what I guess is called an action figure that sits by his bed. His name is Hudson, like the river. He’s given me more Captain America pictures than I have room to hang up, but I hate to get rid of them. I asked him one time why he liked Cap so much and he said “because his shield is so cool and I can pretend I’m him”. I thought about that one and decided that I’m okay with that explanation.

            Stark may be persistent but I can be just as stubborn. The suit is not for that anymore. It’s for fighting and protecting, not building morale. What do I have to offer people? It would be like when I went to the Front and they threw tomatoes at me. If I thought it would do any good, I wouldn’t care how I looked. But it won’t.

            I don’t know if Fury lets people borrow his planes, even though I did once without asking. It ended up being okay because Barton and Agent Romanoff are authorized to fly them. Also, after that we stopped an alien invasion and a nuclear bomb, so he cut us some slack. Can’t you just ask for one as part of the mission? Because it would be a mission – a rendezvous or a parlay with the enemy definitely counts – and you are the one putting it together, so you’re its leader. Seems easy enough.

            If he’s gone off grid then he must be hiding somewhere, and it would probably be somewhere he’s very familiar with so he can control the variables. Have you checked the Winter Soldier’s old hiding places?

Steve

_*******************_

_S_ _teve,_

_Before I move on to matters of, arguably, more importance, I will just say that sick little boys who draw pictures of Captain America because they can pretend to be him probably would get a lot from you, if you chose to offer it. And that is all I am going to say._

_We have checked the ones we know about, but that’s probably not all of them; our most reliable intel only covers a period of about a year right before the Sabbatical, and, while that’s plenty, it doesn’t take into consideration all the old Soviet bunkers that no one has rediscovered. It would have been so much easier if the Target had been attached to, I don’t know, Belgium or something. They aren’t known for their Intelligence Operations. Thank you for the suggestion, though. At present, unfortunately, we’ve shifted focus from hunting the Target to intent to capture him at the rendezvous. That plan is proving to be rather difficult because the location he indicated is a flat plain and doesn’t offer a lot of potential for concealment. If it comes to it, I may need you to take down the Target so we can get a team down there. I’ll brief you more fully when I see you again. Email is not the place for it._

_On that note, I need to ask if you can get here by next week. I should have taken care of that before but I didn’t think of it. Someone at SHIELD can probably work out the tickets for you. They’ll also have the heavy gear you’ll need for Greenland in November. It will be nasty. I hope it doesn’t make your ice cube worse._

_I suppose I am Mission Point, aren’t I? Weird! I didn’t think of it._

_Ivy_

*******************

Dear Ivy,

            You’re right, email isn’t the place to discuss it. I’ll figure out the tickets soon and let you know. When I see you again, we’ll have to talk about what I can and cannot do when it comes to Bucky. I know that to you and SHIELD he is the Target, but I can’t think of him that way. I would prefer it if the responsibility for taking him down did not depend on me. I could never forgive myself if something went wrong because I couldn’t make the right call in a sensitive situation.

            I saw Hudson today – remember, the little boy who draws Captain America pictures for me? I told him I had a friend who really wanted one of his pictures and asked if he would draw one for you. He said that he would. I asked if he would put Iron Man and the Hulk in it too, but he told me that they aren’t friends, so he didn’t think he could. “Iron Man is on tv all the time,” he said, “but Cap is never there. If they were friends they would be together.” He did agree to Thor, but only because he likes drawing lightning. So maybe I’ll have a picture for you before Greenland. That’s something to look forward to, anyway.

Steve

_***********************_

_Steve,_

_I understand your hesitancy and believe me, I’m taking it into consideration. Ultimately, I have to do what I think is most likely to get results. Remember, at this point everybody wants the same thing; it would be quite a serious change of plans to eliminate the Target on the spot. We still need information from him._

_It’s less than a week away now and Chris and I are scrambling to get all of our bases covered. We’ve requested all the equipment and lined up an extraction team. Chris will be my second, I suppose; he knows all my plans and there isn’t really anyone else. We’re still not sure what’s going to happen about the plane, but we have to get you there somehow, don’t we? I’d actually like two so the extraction team can get there faster than coming from the base at Canada or Iceland but I don’t think that’s going to happen. SHIELD-B doesn’t have a very big fleet and our planes are all a bit clunky. If I ever see Director Fury again, I’m adding that to my list of bones to pick. We’ve also got the detention cell ready, for when we bring him back (unless someone else snatches him up. Which is possible. But I hope not.) I can’t think of anything else, but no doubt there’s a million things I’m forgetting. There should be a checklist somewhere: How To Plan a Mission with a Soviet Assassin in Greenland. If I make it through this, I’ll mock it up._

_Ivy_

_**********************_

_Steve!_

_I’ve just got word that they’re going to base Greenland off of the Helicarrier! Did you have anything to do with this? It solves all the problems, of course. There’s plenty of support, and the planes, and the extraction team. I couldn’t ask for anything more. I feel so much better now. The murder of crows in my stomach has sat down for a rest and stopped cawing. Thank goodness!_

_Ivy_

***********************

Dear Ivy,

            No, that wasn’t me. I just found out about it when I went to see about getting over there. They said they had already been given instructions about it; I thought it must have been you. But it wasn’t? Huh. I wonder who it was.

            Now that it’s getting close, I’m starting to get the pre-mission jitters, too. You’re always nervous, I think, no matter how sure you are that things will turn out okay. You can study and strategize the plan to death, but in the back of your head you always wonder. It’s just the way it is. I hope those birds stay on the ground and that you’re able to sleep okay (I had a hard time with that, in my time). Whatever happens, it won’t be because you didn’t do your best to prepare.

            I’ll see you in a few days, then.

Steve


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ivy and Chris Have More On Their Minds Than a Floating Aircraft Carrier

Ivy tried to be nonchalant as she and Chris clambered out of the jet, but she had a feeling she was failing miserably. Between the frigid gust of wind that made her gasp as it hit her face and the awe-inspiring operation that was the Helicarrier, she didn’t know which way to look. The co-pilot, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk, called to her over his shoulder. “If you’ll just wait a minute, agents, I’ll show you the way down.”

“Not bloody likely,” Chris mumbled, burrowing into his parka. “Does he want us _all_ to turn into ice cubes?”

Since it was unlikely he could be heard over the shrieking winds being sucked through the propellers, Ivy let the comment pass and pulled her hat over her ears. It _was_ beastly on the deck, but one really couldn’t expect anything else for November on the Arctic Circle. No doubt it would be more temperate inside. “How long will it be, d’ye think?” she shouted back, trying to make herself heard through her chattering teeth.

“No need, lieutenant,” a voice answered from behind her, “I’ll take them in.”

Ivy spun on her heel, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head – a mistake, since her eyes instantly started watering. Thank goodness Steve Rogers was the last man in the world to think you were crying because you were so glad to see him. “Captain Rogers. I didn’t know you’d be here already.”

“Good winds,” he shrugged, the puffy coat making his shoulders appear to reach his ears. “How was your flight?”

“Uneventful. Happily.”

He smiled at that. “Hope you didn’t get too used to it. There’s always something going on here.” Sticking out an ungloved hand, he raised it voice to draw her assistant’s attention. “Glad you were able to come, Chris.”

Chris ignored both the hand and the pleasantry. “I won’t be glad until I get inside, sir.”

“Chris doesn’t do well in the cold,” Ivy tried to explain, but Steve took it in stride. Gesturing grandly, he allowed her to pass in front of him and directed them towards an open door under the tower. Chris took off like a shot but Ivy went slowly, trying to take in as many of the sights as possible. It wasn’t every agent at SHIELD-B that visited the carrier; she had the whole support team waiting for her to report. Once inside, she paused, waiting for Steve to catch up and letting her nose thaw out.  

He swung the door shut and looked at her apologetically, not including Chris. “Another time I’ll give you the tour, but I have instructions to take you to a briefing right away. Do you mind if I go first?”

“No, not at all,” she said, waving a hand airily. “Lead the way.”

He set off down the hallway with Chris dogging his heels, setting a brisk pace she had to nearly skip to match. Finally deciding it was silly to try, she hung back to observe. Steve had said so little about himself this last month; she had been worried that he had gotten worse and just wasn’t telling her. Gervis’s “Cleared for duty” had been some reassurance, but not much. But, she had to admit, he looked good. Whatever the treatments were doing, they didn’t seem to be affecting him too much physically. He was rolling through these tunnels like they were nothing. But then they turned a corner and she saw him place one hand over his side and grimace. So it was still bothering him, then.

More quickly that the size of the Helicarrier would lead one to believe, Steve led them into a long narrow room with doors at both ends, greyly institutional and decorated like a Spartan barracks. A vase of fake orange zinnias on the desk provided the only warmth. Ivy noticed that there was one chair and one computer, and a complete absence of video screens. “This isn’t where we’re running the op, is it?” If so, she was going to have to do some major adjustments.

“This is Agent Hill’s office.” Steve leaned his shoulder against the wall casually, but she could see the deep breaths filling his frame. “She’s acting as my…manager, I guess? I don’t know the title.”

Ivy jumped as Agent Hill herself came into the office, striding confidently to drop a stack of files on the desk. Every movement was crisp and sure, the actions of a woman in complete control. “The title is ‘sir’,” she said. “Captain Rogers, Agent Carter, Agent Miller.”

Ivy and Chris both saluted; Steve bobbed his head in an old-fashioned bow. Opening her mouth, Ivy wracked her brain for the proper protocol in this situation – speak first? Wait for instruction? Pretend you know what’s going on? Not giving her time to hit on the correct answer, Agent Hill crossed her arms in front of her and fixed them all with a stern eye. “I don’t have a lot of time. What is the plan for this mission?”

Ivy cast a panicked glance at Chris, who was supposed to have uploaded the specs two days ago, and wished fervently that she had taken off her beanie. “Well, sir, our plan is to capture the Target and take him into custody, though we will eliminate if necessary. The Target has stipulated certain conditions-”

“I know,” Hill interrupted, “high noon at 72N 40W tomorrow. How is the team getting in and out?”

Looking to Chris again, Ivy realized she was on her own. Well, she was Mission Lead, wasn’t she? “A jet. We already have one marked, but we’ll need a pilot.”

“Can’t you put someone on the team who is authorised to fly?”

“The extraction team?” Ivy asked, confused. Agent Hill appeared to have read the specs (well done Chris) enough to be familiar with them, but they didn’t mention a team anywhere. “That wouldn’t do much good to get him down there.”

Hill raised both eyebrows. “You’re sending him in alone? Do you think that’s wise?”

“No.” Catching Chris’ tiny headshake, Ivy realized her mistake. “That is, I’m not sending him in alone. There will be an armed long-range sniper accompanying Captain Rogers.” If someone had asked her, she would have said it was impossible to raise your eyebrows any higher than Agent Hill had already done, but she would have been wrong. Now, they disappeared behind the other agent’s bangs. Hill didn’t say anything, though; she just looked at Ivy levelly and patiently, waiting for her to explain herself. The whole expression was frightening rather than otherwise, and Ivy found herself stumbling over her explanation. “The available snipers of that caliber are rare, I know, but with little to no cover it will be a necessary precaution.”

“We put in the request well within the required time frame, sir,” Chris interjected.

Hill looked at him as if she had just realized he was there and wished he would go away. “I…appreciate that, agent,” she said, going back around her desk to settle in the chair, “but I’m having a hard time believing that Captain Rogers and a sniper is our best course of action. That is, after all, what we did last time.”

“And we all got out alive.” Steve’s voice, no longer out of breath, surprised Ivy. Hill, too, flicked her gaze toward him quickly.

“And we lost the asset, four people have been abducted, and one has died. That doesn’t sound like an outcome we want to repeat, Captain Rogers.”

“No,” Steve agreed, and Ivy mentally added an impolite intensifier. The last thing anybody wanted was another two months like this one. Chris was wavering at the very suggestion. She would shoot the Target herself before she let that happen. But it wouldn’t come to that, if Hill would just let her mission unfold as planned; she had looked at all the facts at hand and come up with what she firmly believed to be the best course of action to capture the Target and keep Steve safe. She had a feeling, though, that Hill was not going to do that.

“Well then,” Hill began, moving forward with the subtlety of a steamroller, “I can’t think of any reason why we shouldn’t send in a guard with Captain Rogers. We need to neutralize the threat-”

“I quite agree,” Ivy jumped in, not naming any of the six reasons it would be bad to send an escort, “and believe my plan will do so in a much less risky manner.”

Hill leaned back in her seat and fired off a cannonball of disapproval: “There we disagree.”

It was supposed to be a death knell; no junior agent should dare maintain a position when faced with outright disapproval from on high. Ivy saw her carefully planned op going down in flames, carrying with it Steve and any hope of apprehending the Target. But she refused to bailout. Sending in a team would add in an uncountable number of variables they couldn’t even begin to guess at, placing the Target on the defensive for the first time in fifty years. He had already proved his unpredictability; what would he do then? Ivy glanced over at Steve, who had straightened but kept his arm tucked protectively around his side. No way on God’s green earth she would risk him like that. “With all due respect, sir, it is still my op, isn’t it? I have final say on anything to do with its planning and follow-through.”

Chris looked at her like she had just grown a third head. Agent Hill managed to keep it together, but a shutter came down over her expression and she spoke quietly, as if she was trying to maintain control over her voice. “I am authorised to veto anything I see as undo risk to our organisation or assets, and sending in” – her voice grew in volume – “a weakened Captain America on a solo rendezvous with the assassin who shot him last time sure as _hell_ sounds like undo risk to me!”

Ivy sucked in a breath, willing the firey coil in her belly to tamp down, and gathered together her tact. Before she could find words beyond “Why the hell am I still here, then?” Steve stepped forward to stand between her and Hill, holding up a _calm down_ hand to each of them. “Look, there’s not a lot of time left. Did you need to go over anything else with Agent Carter?”

Agent Hill shot him a glare Ivy knew she was matching. It was not, she felt irrationally, his business to get involved. She needed to handle this by herself. “May I assume,” she asked coolly, “you will still allow the sniper, as the method of capture depends on that?”

“Only as a precaution,” Hill said, just as hard, “and only if you’ve brought your own bullets. We haven’t used those in years.”

Ivy indicated Chris with her head. Understanding her signal, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “Two of each,” he said, flicking open the lid to display six spike-tipped bullets. “These are the trackers, these the knock-outs, and here are the explosives.”

Steve jerked beside her, eyes widening at the little vials of destruction. She made her tone as matter-of-fact as possible, explaining to Hill but really to him. “Obviously, we intend to use the knock-outs. The others are just precautionary.”

“They’re all precautionary,” Hill corrected. Then, looking at her watch, she stood abruptly. “Someone will show you to your station for tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll use your time between now and then wisely.”

“Of course,” Ivy said, barely getting the words out before the other agent disappeared the way she came. Letting herself slump, she rubbed her hands over her face and peered between her fingers at Chris.

He put the box carefully in his jacket pocket, shaking his head as he did. “She is one tough lady.”

“Understatement of the year,” she agreed, taking a deep breath. “Worse than Fury.”

Steve turned to them, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Agent Hill’s all right, once you get to know her. She just likes rules.”

She wondered fleetingly how long it took to get to know Agent Hill and when, exactly, Steve had made time to do so, then pulled off her beanie and began unzipping her jacket. “Well, she’s given me a task I’d rather not fulfill. How do I even begin to find an escort team this late?” It was all right for Hill, who spoke with Fury’s authority; lowly junior agents from other bases would have an uphill climb.

“I had an idea about that.” Steve was serious, glancing over his shoulder into the upper corner of the room. “But not here. Let’s get something to eat.”

* * *

 

Steve led them to a mess hall Ivy couldn’t believe existed on the massive Helicarrier – mess closet would have been more accurate. Two tiny tables sat in the empty space in front of the window, which had the aluminium curtain rolled down. Chris sat down quickly and pulled out his phone. “It buzzed twelve alerts on the way here. Maybe it’s new information we need for the mission.”

Ivy, taking the chair across from him, thought his enthusiasm was sweet. None of his alerts had come to anything in the last month; she had given up hoping. “How many dinner shifts do you have?” she asked Steve, who had tried opening the window and was now jiggling the door handle. “Do you have to start at noon?”

“This is usually for people with special diets,” he responded, banging the door with his shoulder, “but other people use it sometimes.” Running one hand over his hair, he stood back and scowled. “Guess I have to go around. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Are _you_ cooking for us?” she asked, amused. “You’re a man of many talents.”

“Me? No. You don’t want to taste my cooking. I don’t even try.”

As he left the room, Ivy leaned back and closed her eyes. Chris, bless him, would be quiet; he know not to bother her while she was thinking. And she had to think now, to try to sort out what exactly she was going to do about Agent Hill’s demands. On the one hand, by virtue of her position Hill had the right to modify any missions she thought required it. On the other hand, Ivy knew that there was more risk to Steve if she did as she was told, and the safety trade-off wasn’t equitable. It did _not_ make sense to send in an escort; she was as certain of that as her own name. But she, like Hill, believed in rules, and one of the few in SHIELD was _obey orders_. Bad things happened to people who struck out on their own. “What do you think is the likelihood that the Target has heat sensors?” she asked Chris without opening her eyes.

“Not high,” he said instantly, “and the jets have cloaks.”

“We could send the escort in the jet and land it near where they’ll be, in case something goes wrong. That should satisfy Hill.”

“Except…” Chris sounded regretful, and she heard him sliding his phone to her across the table. “One of the lads sent that over.”

**Just you and me, Steve – don’t plan on a date. I don’t want anyone setting me up today. Have a cab bring you, and you can call them when we’re done.**

“At least,” Chris said as she buried her face in her hands, “it appears that he doesn’t want to kill Captain Rogers. That’s good news.”

“I can’t handle good news right now, Chris!” Even knowing she had been right about the final message didn’t make up for this new development. It really was the final straw. Not only could she not obey Hill, but she couldn’t use her original plan of a sniper hiding in the jet. “What, am I going to have to send Steve down with a concealed weapon and magnets? How did we go from a near certainty to an if-we’re-lucky situation?”

“You’re sure we can’t use the old plan?”

She shot to her feet and began pacing back and forth, unable to stay still. “Oh, _sure_. We’d just have to find a sniper who can disappear into the ground a mile away and still make a shot. Not a big deal, yes? Why don’t you get the lads on it?”

“Everything okay?”

She whirled to face Steve, but her indignant explanation froze on her lips when she saw who was with him. A blush spread over her cheeks. The other agent raised a skeptical eyebrow and flipped one of his gun-shaped oven mitts onto the table. “Not really, Cap. If you had told me we were having company I would have made dessert.” Placing the dish he held gingerly on the mitt, Agent Barton turned to her. “Good thing meatloaf stretches.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is the End of Phase Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lines in italics are heard over the comms.

As conditions went, Clint was sure he had been in worse. He had just blocked them out of his memory. His parka was specially designed for warmth and water-resistance, but it did squat when you were lying full-sprawl on an ice sheet with high pressure winds blowing snow into every open space. Still, from a distance he would look like a snowdrift, and that was what they were all banking on. That, and that the rifles wouldn’t freeze up. It was by no means a given.

 _Wait for Steve to distract his attention before you aim,_ Agent Carter’s voice came crackling over the com. _From here you’re fairly obvious._

“Copy,” he muttered, tracking Rogers as the Captain picked his lonely way towards the black speck even Clint could hardly recognize as a person.

“Pretty desolate out here,” Cap said, carefully using their agreed upon code. “Can’t imagine anyone hanging around if they didn’t have to.”

_Good, Steve. Nearly there. Can you see anything besides him?_

“Feels like negative 30.”

“Same,” Clint added, “we’re clear.”

_Small favors. Agent Barton, I think it’s safe to pull out the scope._

Keeping one gloved hand wrapped around the firing mechanism, he reached the other into his pocket and pulled out the long-distance scope that let him see nearly a mile away. Gingerly, he reached up to attach it to the white 50 cal rifle, covering the lens to avoid a glare. “Set.”

_Hold, please._

Clint did as she asked, craning his neck up half an inch to watch Rogers’ progress. He was sucking in long, deep breaths; Clint didn’t know if that was for his condition or his nerves. Either way, it was a sign of weakness the mission couldn’t afford. Time for some levity. “Chill, Captain.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Steve replied dryly, taking it up a notch.

 _Cut the chatter_ , Agent Carter said, but he could tell she thought it was funny.

“That’s what I’m telling my teeth.”

“It _is_ pretty cold, isn’t it?” The voice cut into the air like a saber, frigid and sharp. Clint heard Rogers take one more deep breath before he responded.

“You could have picked a better spot for a party.”

“In the old days,” the Winter Soldier said, “we could make a party anywhere.”

“These aren’t the old days,” said Rogers. “There’s too much water under the bridge.”

_You’re probably clear, Agent Barton. Steve, keep him talking. Ask him what he wants._

_Steve_ , she calls him, Clint mused as he peered through the scope and adjusted his sights a millimeter at a time – at this distance, you had to be very precise to see anything clearly. It could be dangerous, first name basis; he had watched it blow up more times than he could count. Then again, he wasn’t really one to talk.

“So, I’m here.” Rogers spoke just as Clint managed to line up the two men. He couldn’t see either face. Rogers, back to his position, was more or less covering the assassin, who was wearing a helmet anyway. He now pushed it forward on his head, shadowing his eyes even further.

“You came alone, right?”

Rogers stretched his arms out to either side of him. “See anyone else?”

_Please don’t be glib, Steve._

“Bet you’ve got someone talking for you in your ear, though.” Before Rogers could deny it, the Winder Soldier brushed him off. “You should get rid of ‘em if you can, Steve. There’s nothing worse than being controlled all the time.”

_Ask him if he’s being controlled._

“I’m not being controlled.”

“No?” The assassin scoffed. “They gave you a nice apartment, some money, the clothes on your back. Think they don’t know exactly what you, with your overdeveloped sense of justice, are going to think you need to do for them?”

It was a fair point and Clint was not surprised that Agent Carter remained silent. But he was also not surprised when Rogers, without missing a beat, shot back “I only do things for the same reason I’ve always done them, Bucky. You gotta stand up for people who can’t do it themselves.”

The Winter Soldier rocked back on his heels, stepping away from Rogers. His words, full of bravado, contrasted with the posture. “That’s a real beautiful idea, Steve. Real nice. But I don’t work that way anymore.”

 _Ask him what he does,_ Agent Carter instructed, but the Captain had the question out almost before she started speaking. “So how do you work? What’s all this for?”

“This what, Steve?” He jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled like he didn’t have a care in the world. Clint had to swing the rifle back and forth to keep him in his sights. He could only hope the assassin wouldn’t see the movement. “This little visit? Can’t a guy want to see an old friend on his birthday?”

Rogers planted himself and crossed his arms. “What about those people?”

“Collateral damage.”

Over the com, Clint hear Agent Carter suck in a breath. He didn’t even blink. After awhile you stopped reacting; it just one of the things that generally set SHIELD apart from the bad guys. Rogers let his arms fall to his sides and didn’t answer.

_Keep pressing, Steve. We have to know what he’s up to._

Rogers was obedient, though it took him a few tries to get the words out from between his clenched teeth. “Whatever you have to say had better be damn well worth it.”

Clint thought that was unlikely. Psychopaths like the Winter Soldier didn’t need a good reason to hurt people; anything could serve as an excuse. Whatever he had dragged them all out to this godforsaken land for, it wasn’t going to be anything useful. They might as well shoot him now. Except that he had stopped neatly in front of Rogers, whose broad shoulders effectively blocked the shot. “Can’t see,” he growled, hopeful Steve would understand.

He did, sliding casually to the right, but the Target matched his movement and laughed. “What’s wrong? Can’t even look at me?” Rogers didn’t respond, at least not with words. Clint could see the jut of his jaw a mile away. Apparently, the assassin remembered what that meant. His tone became very grim, and the timbre dropped a full octave. “See, the thing is, Steve, what I’m saying isn’t that important. It’s what I’m doing. All this” – he spread his arms in a grand gesture – “this is just scenery. And those people? Just props.”

“So what are you doing that’s so important?”

“Making things fair.”

Oh, he was one of _those_ megalomaniacs – the ones on a binge for “justice”. Clint had no patience for that. He learned a long time ago that life was never “fair” and people who thought it should be were at best naïve and at worst myopic lunatics. Rogers, incredulity in every word, stared at his old friend. “Fair? What was _fair_ about what you did to those people?”

“Damnit, will you forget about those people? I told you it doesn’t have anything to do with them!” Then, quick as lightning, the Winter Soldier grabbed two fistfuls of Roger’s jacket, pulling their bodies together and speaking right into his face. “This is about you and me, Steve. Making it right with _you and me.”_

Steve reeled backwards, but the assassin clung to him like a leech, his head barely visible over Rogers’ shoulder. “Don’t fight it, Captain,” Clint whispered urgently, lining up the Target in his sights before pressing the alert signal in his pocket. There was a click and then Agent Carter’s voice, rushed and breathy.

_I muted him. What happened? Our camera went blank._

“Not blank,” he said, trying hard to listen to Rogers’ attempts to calm the Target down. “Things can be square,” he heard before continuing. “Target grabbed Rogers.”

_Good lord, what are you waiting for? Take him out!_

Clint peered through the scope, adjusting for distance and velocity, and affirmed the conclusion he had already reached. “I’d have to shoot him in the face. It would definitely kill him. You okay with that?”

Silence on the line. Then, reluctantly, _Not yet. Standby._ He heard her turn Rogers’ earpiece on with a sigh. _Steve, ask him about the antidote._

Rogers slowly raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, cutting into the impressive stream of Russian curses. “Okay, okay. And the thing you shot me with last time, all part of this plan, right?”

The Target leaned back, grinning crazily. “It’s a beaut, isn’t it? Guy I know in Moldova made it for me.”

“Is there a way to fix it?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you need help, Bucky.”

“Help?” Pushing Rogers back, the killer turned sharply and strode away, his back towards Clint’s position. Tucking his finger inside the trigger guard, Clint began his slow breaths, waiting for a lull in the wind. Alllmost…

“They can help you. You can stop all this if you want to try.”

The Winter Soldier turned back to face Rogers, pushing his helmet back on his head as he did so. Peering intently through the scope, Clint noticed every line, every scar, every emotion pouring over the man’s face. It was the first time he had ever seen it and he wished, with a sudden gut-deep ache, that he had not.

“Aw, Steve. That’s cute. But I know what your masters do to people like me. No thanks.”

“They won’t,” Rogers said, moving towards his friend until Clint hissed at him. He stopped, stretching out a hard. “I won’t let them. I promise.”

Barnes snorted. “Promise? What good is that when they already made you lie to me once?” Then, turning his head slightly, he jerked up his gun arm, pointing it past Steve.

Clint saw, with perfect clarity, everything that was going to happen in the next few seconds and fired off a shot instantly, shouting “Cap, get down!” before loosing the next two rounds. Then it hit him, a huge bullet that felt like a minie ball, straight through the upper part of his left arm. His hand went dead and he rolled to get his right hand on the trigger before realizing he was loosing too much blood much too fast. “Request immediate assistance,” he tried to say, shaking his head to keep the grey from impeding his vision.  “Loosing blood fast.”

He thought he heard Agent Carter giving clipped and hasty directions, but wasn’t sure of anything until Rogers’ anxious face swam into focus above him. “She said she made you bring a first aid kit. Where?”

“Box?” he said, trying to remember that far back. He was shot, but before that… “Did we get him?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, increasingly hazy, “he went down. I think he’s still alive, so let’s keep you that way, okay?”

“M’fine,” he mumbled, just before he went under.

* * *

 

He came to on the jet, head swimming and still unable to feel his hand. Rogers sat in the corner with his chin in his hand and an anxious expression on his face. To Clint, it looked like the jet was in a blender. Maybe that was why he couldn’t see Barnes. “Where…” he asked, trying to sit up.

Rogers was there in an instant, pushing him back down. “The jet. We’re going back to the carrier.”

Clint shook his head, ignoring the nausea that accompanied the motion. “The Target.”

Rogers’ face hardened and he shifted his gaze to a spot above Clint’s head (or where he thought his head was). “He was playing possum. While I was helping you, he got away. Like you were an intentional casualty. Collateral damage.” He swallowed hard, jutting his jaw forward as if daring Clint to disagree. “I should have known.”

He had a vague recollection that Rogers was missing something, but the grey was returning and he didn’t feel like figuring it out. There was something else…something that was more pressing at the moment. “Captain, favor.”

“What is it?”

“My phone. Call Natasha. Tell her the Greenwich Public Library says she returned a damaged book. She has to pay a fine.”

“That’s important right now?” Steve asked, digging around in Clint’s duffle all the same.

“Don’t forget the fine,” he said, and passed out again.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ivy Needs a Good Cry

When they had come to the alcove off the landing deck, it had been cold; now they had been here long enough to warm it up with their breath. The jet had to be getting close. Ivy looked down at her watch and only then realized that she was drumming her fingers against her leg insistently, beating out (she thought) the melody line of “I Have Confidence”. Someday she was going to break herself of that idiotic habit. Today, though, it was that or pacing like a lion, seeking someone to devour. Balling her hands into fists, Ivy stuffed them in her pockets and tried to project control. The two nurses, who were waiting with a stretcher to take Agent Barton to Medical as soon as he touched down, didn’t pay her any attention as they laughed together at something the male nurse said. She should draw comfort from that, she knew. Trained medical professionals weren’t worried, so there was likely nothing to worry about. Maybe it was normal for agents to come back from missions unconscious. What did she know?

With a whoosh, the doors to the deck flew open, sucking out the warm air before a frigid gust blew in with her team. Instantly, the med team snapped into action, running out to meet the two black-suited men who were carrying in the stretcher. A third ran beside them, holding something large and round over the prone figure. As they drew nearer, Ivy realized Steve was using his shield to block some of the gusting winds. They came in a clump, blurring together so that she couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of Agent Barton’s pale face as they rushed past. He looked shriveled and drawn, a far cry from the man she had sent down only hours before. But he was still breathing, the mask over his mouth and nose fogging with condensation. So she hadn’t completely screwed it up.

She watched the stretcher-bearers disappear into the bowels of the ship, blinking blankly until the cold air stopped pushing at her back. Turning, she saw the third member of her extraction team juggling the rifles as the door shut behind him. “Are these Barton’s guns?” he asked, shaking snow off himself.

“Yes, I think so.” Her voice came out business-like and steady, for which she gave herself a mental pat on the back.

“Only Barton.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll just drop them by his bunk. He’ll murder me if I mess with them.”

He set off at a decent clip and Ivy, realizing he was her best hope of finding the main thoroughfare, followed him quickly. She wasn’t sure what to do next. There would have to be reports, of course; someone would need to schedule debriefs with Steve and Agent Barton, when he was better; since there had been an injury there might have to be an inquiry. None of that, she thought heatedly, was her responsibility. Let Chris or one of the clerks handle it. What she wanted to do was find a quiet corner and rein in this murder of worry crows that had appeared as soon as the sound of the shot came over the com. Now that everyone was safe and the mission over, they were more than making up for her earlier neglect. Coming to a crossroads of corridors, she leaned back against a wall and buried her head in her hands. They had been justified, those feelings of doom; she had tossed back and forth all night, telling herself that everything would be fine, the plan was nearly foolproof, but she had still failed utterly and got someone else shot in the process. Only two missions in her entire life and people had been hurt at both of them. She was cursed, that was all, she thought as she sniffed back tears. If she believed in curses.

“Agent Carter!”

Wiping her eyes hurriedly, she turned to meet him as he came up one of the hallways. If he noticed her tears, he was too much of a gentleman to draw attention to them. “Captain Rogers.” The formal name felt stiff on her tongue; he was Steve now, even when she thought of him privately. “What have they said? Do you know anything?”

He pushed the hair off his forehead as he came up beside her, clearly displaying the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. She hadn’t been the only one to not sleep last night. “They aren’t saying anything yet. I came to find you. I guess they can only talk to mission lead or a certain clearance level – I don’t have any clearance levels.”

She had known, of course, that she would have to go down there, to face him, but she had wanted a minute to catch her breath first. What did you say to a man who had done exactly what you told him and got shot because of it? Ivy didn’t know. No one had ever prepared her for this. But Steve, standing there sweating and breathing heavily from his run to Medical and back, seemed to expect it of her, no questions asked. Looking at him, Ivy reached deep down into her emotional reserve and came up with a reassuring smile. “I’m not sure how high my clearance goes, but they have to talk to me, I think. Good job you’ve come; I’d get home sooner than find my way there. Is it far?”

He shook his head _no_ , leading the way back down the corridor. She eyed him appraisingly. There were things she had to ask, but the last thing she wanted was to put someone else in the hospital. He was walking more slowly than usual; she was easily able to match his pace despite their height difference. But he also appeared to be getting his breath back and his hands were swinging freely at his sides, so she risked another question. “Has he been unconscious this whole time? Is he unconscious now?”

“He is now, but he woke up for a minute on the plane. Not long. I don’t think he was all there yet.”

Oh Lord, she hadn’t even thought of brain damage. What the hell had he been shot with? “Why do you think that?”

Steve turned down a brightly-lit corridor that smelled of antiseptic. “He asked me to call Agent Romanoff and tell her something about a library book. I don’t even remember what it was now.”

“But nothing about the Target?”

“Wanted to know where he was.” Stalking forward, a black storm cloud on his face, Steve jabbed at a touch pad by a sliding glass door and growled their names at the request for identification. Then he took off through the buzzed-open door, uncharacteristically leaving her to follow. Within the minute, he stopped in front of a white steel door. “This is it. You can probably go in. They told me to get checked out before I showed my face again.” And with that he left her before she had a chance to more than sputter, “wait!” She didn’t want him to go, not yet; she felt an overwhelming need for back-up and he was obviously as fine as possible. Back-up for what, though? she chastised herself firmly, she was just going to talk to some doctors and she could certainly manage that on her own. Turning to the door, Ivy took a deep breath before buzzing the intercom. Time to utilize her nation’s famed upper lip.

“Agent Carter here to enquire about Agent Barton. I was lead on his mission.”

The door slid open on silent tracks and Ivy stepped into yet another metal crossroads. Three hallways branched off it, nothing to distinguish between them. “Am I supposed to kick my heels here?” she asked aloud, suddenly very tired of the whole thing, “or should I strike out on my own?”

“Wait, please.”

Ten minutes later, a tall middle-aged woman trotted down the left hallway, pushing glasses up her nose with one finger. “Can you tell me-” Ivy began, only to have the other woman cut her off.

“Agent Carter?” She stuck out a business-like hand, tucking her clipboard under her left arm. “Laura Wilcox. I heard you buzz in.”

“Are you looking after Agent Barton, then?” Ivy asked, shaking hands.

“I am. Often do. Follow me, please.”

She followed the doctor through what appeared to be a laboratory in miniature – a room with microscopes and test tubes, several offices, an x-ray room. It was like a rabbit warren. “Agent Barton?” she asked, trying to keep track of her way out.

Dr. Wilcox swung open a door and gestured Ivy in. The room, a small office with several video screens on a wall, reminded her of her pediatrician’s surgery, though with an alarming collection of bullets in glass jars. She sat on a tiny couch that had no doubt come from Ikea and waited for the doctor to begin explaining. After closing the door behind her, Dr. Wilcox went to the screens and began taking notes on her clipboard. “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve got a very interesting case under observation.”

“I beg your pardon, but I do, rather.” Ivy felt her hackles rising and clenched her teeth into a smile to modulate her irritated tones. “It has now been several hours since my agent was shot and I have no information as to his condition. Can you tell me if this is normal practice? It’s my first time being responsible for somebody who’s been assaulted.”

Dr. Wilcox didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Oh, well, if that’s all, he’s alive and likely to remain so. But he’s unconscious right now, so your briefing will have to wait. Can you find your way out?”

 _That_ was what they gave her, a brief pat and a “come back later”? Didn’t they know who and what they were dealing with here? “No, that is not _all_.” Her forced smile dropped off as Ivy stood, crossing her arms in front of her. If she had to be a hardnose to get information, so be it. “I need to know why he lost so much blood, why he’s still out, what he was shot with, and if it’s still in there. I’d also like you to have SHIELD-B send up a check they did on Captain Rogers last August and compare them to Agent Barton’s scans.”

Turning away from the screens, the doctor raised both eyebrows and peered over her glasses. She spoke slowly, as if Ivy needed to read her lips. “He got shot with a mushroom-head bullet that hit his clavicle and nicked an artery. He passed out from blood loss and we’re keeping him under until he’s stable enough that it won’t hurt him too much when he inevitably pulls his ivs and escapes.” Dropping the patronizing tone, she went back to the clipboard. “What in the world do you think happened? This is pretty run-of-the-mill.”

Ivy didn’t miss the implied _you should know that_ , but she tried to ignore it, flipping her braid over a shoulder. “Perhaps you aren’t aware, but Agent Barton was shot by the same man who is responsible for Captain Rogers’ condition. We all thought he was fine, too.” Dr. Wilcox’s face blanched, and Ivy knew that shot had hit home. “If you could please get me that other information, I’ll wait here.” With that, she sat down again, trying to look at solid as I.

Dr. Wilcox shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It’ll take some time,” she hedged.

“I’ll wait,” Ivy replied again.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 _You had better_ , Ivy thought as the door shut behind the doctor, immediately rescinding it when she remembered the startled look on the other woman’s face. If they hadn’t known, they couldn’t be blamed; there was no reason to be unfair. It wasn’t the doctors’ fault that no one had filled them in properly. If anything, it was hers – hers for not being there straightaway, for not briefing the nurses while they had time, for not seeing the danger of the situation in the first place. At the time, it had seemed like the only way to keep everyone safe, but look where they were: not safe. Somehow, she should have known better. Ivy rubbed her face in her hands and stared at the floor, not seeing anything but Agent Barton’s white, still face.

She sat there for a long time. Nobody came to tell her anything. Chris checked in once, twice, but it was just to let her know they were still looking; it was all quiet on all the fronts. She gave up watching the clock after the first hour and took to pinching herself to keep awake, then resumed her drumming and humming. There was no one here to be strong in front of. After the second hour, Ivy stopped trying, resting her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees in hope that anyone passing would think her merely contemplative. Her eyes drifted shut and she emptied her mind, ready to start awake if needed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ivy Still Needs a Good Cry

“Ivy? Ivy?”

She breathed in deeply without opening her eyes. She had wondered, once, what her name would sound like if he said it, and now she knew: gentle and charmingly awkward. She could get used to that.  It was good that Steve could still speak; he must not have turned into a giant ice sculpture after all, whatever it had looked like in Moscow. That must mean that Agent Barton was all right, too, not laying in a pool of blood in the snow. Something warm enveloped her shoulder, then patted it hesitantly. “Ivy?” Steve said again. “I have the report from the doctor.”

With those words, her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, rubbing her cheek where it had rested against the arm of the couch. Steve, now out of uniform and wearing khakis, sat beside her with an opaque medical tablet cued up to a picture of a bullet. So it wasn’t all a dream, then. Her lightness of a moment ago disappeared with a pop. “Dr. Wilcox?” she asked, groping at straws. “The report on Agent Barton?”

He nodded, handing her the tablet. “She couldn’t bring it in herself, but she said you had been waiting for it.”

“Thank you.” Steve stood and let her page through the scans and reports, stopping when she returned to the picture of the bullet. Lying on a surgical tray, it did resemble a mushroom; the tip had flattened out into a dome, leaving only the very end cylindrical and stalk-like. “Well, that’s something, anyway,” she said, turning the screen around for him to see. “If they dug an actual bullet out of him, he probably hasn’t got what you have.”

Squatting in front of her, he used two fingers to zoom in on the head. “What kind of bullet is this? That wound must be huge. No wonder he was bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Ivy had never seen a bullet like that, either, though she had hoped it was just a gap in her knowledge. “We’ll send it to Analysis. With any luck they’ll recognise it.” Of course, with the luck they had been having, it would be the first bullet like that in the known history of violence.

“Dr. Wilcox said you would probably ask about that.” Steve returned to his feet, dusting off his knees. “She already sent it down. I guess that’s normal practice with unfamiliar weapons.”

Yet another thing she should have known, no doubt. Tucking the tablet under one arm, she stood as well, noting the kink in her neck from her awkward sleeping position. “I don’t suppose you know where Analysis is? I’d rather not wander around like a lost puppy if I don’t have to.”

“ ‘Fraid not. But I can take you back to the Bridge. Someone there should be able to tell you.”

They walked out of medical and down the silver halls in silence. A good mission lead would be making the most of this opportunity to talk to her agent, but despite her nap Ivy still felt too exhausted to deal with it. Her dreams had been less than restful. Instead, she concentrated on her mental To Do: check in with Chris; find and follow-up with Analysis; get Gervis to send whatever he had on Steve’s blood to compare with Agent Barton’s. And after that, she thought wearily, figure out what to do next. This was the end of Round Two, points still to the Target – he had been in her literal sights and had managed to escape. Again. And this time he had vanished into thin air, leaving little to nothing behind him by way of useful information. All that effort and energy, the time she and Chris had spent planning and organizing the op, Steve facing his demons, Agent Barton’s injury – all for nothing.  All right, not _nothing_. But not enough to make any difference, either.

Glancing up at Steve as he pressed a button and called for the lift, she saw that the storm had returned to his face. Instantly, she wanted to kick herself. What was she going on about? All she had done was let down Agent Barton and Steve and SHIELD, and they would shift along in time.  That was nothing. He had gone into battle for Bucky Barnes, and come out defeated. She remembered, suddenly, something he had said during the meet up: “ the past is the past; things can be square again”. Face-to-face with his best friend, he had tried to bring him back. And then James Barnes had raised his arm and shot someone in cold blood. 

The lift dinged; the doors slid open. Steve let her go in first and she stood without turning, staring at the back wall as he got in behind her and selected a level. As the doors shut, he dropped a sentence into the silence, not looking at her. “I’ve been thinking about what the Target said. How he wants to make things fair between us.”

Matching her tone to his pragmatic one, she turned to face the front. “Yes?”

“The only thing I can figure is that he wants me to suffer like he did the last seventy years. If that’s true-” He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head. “Setting aside the fact that he doesn’t know a damn thing about me, I can’t figure out what he thinks he’ll do next.”

One possible lead down. Her heart dropped slightly, but she pushed consciousness of it away. “Nor me. We may be able to look at what we know of his past to find parallels.” It was a long shot, but longer shots had been made today. She would try anything that offered even a slight chance of success.

“What about the tracer bullet? Wouldn’t that be easier?” He glanced down at her, a spring of hope in his eyes.

If only… “It didn’t get him,” she had to say, hesitantly. “Chris checked – it activated, but just lay there in the same spot.” He returned to staring at the doors, any warmth gone. She knew how he felt - their last, best shot…she injected false enthusiasm into her voice and tried to spin it. “But there were a few leads from your conversation that I’ve got Chris working on. We’ll find him again.”

“Sure,” he said flatly.

The lift came to a stop and let them out on what Ivy recognized as the main deck; the hallways were punctuated every hundred yards by a tiny window. Outside, the cloud cover hadn’t let up. “Can’t we get above this?” she asked Steve, indicating a window as they passed it.

He shrugged. “They must be waiting around for something. I don’t think we’ve moved since we came up.”

“So we’re still over the rendezvous point?”

“Guess so.”

She considered that information. In other conditions, it would have been logical to send a team back down to see if they could pick up any information about how the Target came and went, but with the winds and the snow on the ground, anything that had been there would be long covered up by now. If she had been on the ball, she would have suggested it hours ago. Now, there was nothing left but secondhand info. “There will have to be a debriefing, and soon. Are you up for it?”

Taking a corner a little too sharply, Steve rammed his shoulder into the wall and rubbed it angrily. “I’m fit to debrief whenever I’m ordered.”

That attitude wasn’t like him; he had never been anything but polite to her. She answered crisply, smarting at his tone. “I wasn’t thinking of ordering, but if you’d rather I’ll let you know. For now, I’d like an update on your physical condition?”

“They said it all checked out. They measured another layer of ice, but that was bound to happen with all the running I did. It doesn’t affect critical systems.”

 _Critical systems_ was, she was sure, a direct quote. “You don’t seem to be feeling it.”

He clenched his jaw. “There’s too much else to deal with right now.”

Coming around the corner, she could hear a buzz of activity ahead. They must be close. “The Bridge is that way,” he said, stopping to point. “Permission to excuse myself? I have something to take care of.”

This sudden formality had come from nowhere, but two could play that game. “Granted, Captain. I’ll send a message regarding the debrief.”

He ducked his head, eyes dark. “Thank you, Agent Carter.”

She watched as he pushed through the crowd funneling into the Bridge, tension in every line of his figure. Slumping against the wall, she twirled the end of her braid around her finger and considered her options. Follow Steve, bother him to share his emotions, probably end in tears. Go to the Bridge, confab with Chris, find nothing, and probably end in tears. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. Ivy sighed and turned towards the Bridge. For her sake, Steve would have to find his own answers right now.

She sent Chris to bed after the third hour. They weren’t finding anything anyway; it didn’t make sense to have both of them dead on their feet. He had already done a hero’s job of it, finding and flagging the likely suspects for the Target’s Moldovan weapon maker. Locating them was proving to be a bit of a task, but when was anything in this business easy? She, Ivy, was now pouring through satellite feed after satellite feed, trying desperately to get an eye on what had happened while Steve’s back had turned. A man could not just disappear into a white void like that. He had to have an accomplice, a hideout, something – anything! But so far, no luck. The cloud cover was making the feeds patchy at best; if she caught a glimpse of the three men, it was all she got. She was getting desperate. And desperately tired.  Pausing the feed she was currently watching, she yanked the tie from the end of her braid and quickly pulled her hair to pieces. She didn’t know if her headache could be attributed to her hairstyle, but it was relieving to the feelings and worth a shot. Besides, the black curls made a decent curtain around her face as she bowed her head over her desk, pushing the tears away with the heels of her hands. Stop that, she told herself, SHIELD agents don’t cry. Certainly not when they’re faced with the consequences of their own actions. She had no one to blame for this but herself. “I should have listened to Agent Hill,” she muttered, sniffling.

“Do you know where Hill got her start?” a voice asked above her. “Security. That’s no way to run an op.”

Ivy’s head shot up, a lone tear trickling, forgotten, down her cheek. The woman standing in front of her was a stranger, but surely there could only be one SHIELD agent with hair that red and a face that inscrutable. _She’s come for my blood_ , Ivy thought, panicked, before realizing even the famous Black Widow would hardly get away with killing another agent on the Bridge of the Helicarrier. It took everything she had to keep her hand steady as she rose and extended it. “Agent Romanoff, I think? I’m glad to finally meet you.”

“Hi,” the other agent said coolly, not taking it. As she spoke her eyes raked over Ivy’s face, giving Ivy the squirmy feeling of a bug pinned to a card. Suddenly conscious of her tear-stained cheeks and disheveled hair, she lowered her eyes and sat down. She might not have known what to do with Agent Hill, but there was absolutely no guidebook for a situation like this. Going on her thirty-seventh hour awake, Ivy didn’t feel up to figuring it out. 

“I didn’t know that,” she offered when Agent Romanoff didn’t say anything further. “About Agent Hill.”

She gave the tiniest possible one-shouldered shrug. “It doesn’t mean she’s not a capable agent. She shoots better than I do and has the patience of a saint. But she can’t shake that mindset.”

Ivy looked over at the image on her computer: the barren meeting site, minutes after Steve had taken off to staunch Agent Barton’s blood flow. “If I had sent the team like she wanted, we would have captured the Target and Agent Barton wouldn’t be in medical right now.” Agent Romanoff didn’t blink, didn’t move, but Ivy suddenly remembered what Steve had said about her earlier. This was Agent Barton’s partner, for heaven’s sake, practically his other half – and she knew that he was hurt and had been raving about a library book. “He’s fine, though,” she added hurriedly. “Or, at least he will be.”

“I know.” One minute Agent Romanoff was standing, the next she was perched at the edge of Chris’ chair, arms folded across her torso. Ivy didn’t even see her move. “Maybe that would be right,” she said, causing Ivy a moment of confusion before she realized she had returned to Ivy’s first statement, “and maybe it would be a bigger disaster than it was.”

Ivy had a sudden vision of Steve lying in his own blood and felt dizzy, glad she hadn’t thought of it before. Well, since the mission, at least – that had been the image at the forefront of her mind as she planned the op, the thing she was trying at all costs to avoid. “Yes,” she agreed, finally. “But I’m sorry about Agent Barton.”

“Agents get shot.”

“Too often, apparently.”

“Not if it’s worth it.”

“But this wasn’t.”

Agent Romanoff stood, regarding her steadily. This time, Ivy met her gaze. After a minute, the other agent’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “You’re new,” she said finally, “and you’ve had a hard day. In time you’ll learn that even a partial victory is worth it.”

“I might agree, if we had had one.”

“The tracker,” Agent Romanoff said, “definitely counts.”

“The tracker,” Ivy retorted, “was a bust. It didn’t hit him, or at least it didn’t stick.”

Her visitor had begun to move away, but looked back over her shoulder coolly. “Another thing you’ll learn,” she said, “is that Agent Barton never misses three shots in a row. Check it again.”

Ivy narrowed her eyes, following Agent Romanoff until she disappeared so quietly it was like she had never been there. She had certainly not said Agent Barton had _missed_ ; it was a problem with outdated tech. Chris had been watching like Hawkeye himself the whole time she was in Medical, and it hadn’t budged a degree. It was still there, blinking regularly, at 72N 40W. Shaking her head, Ivy returned to her surveillance. That was where they were going to find something, if they were going to find anything at all.

Ten minutes later, she was unable to help herself. Clicking on the tiny tracking link, which she hadn’t gotten around to deleting, she searched the signal. And look, there it was, same as always, at 72N 39W. 72N – 39W?

“I could KISS you, Agent Barton,” she shrieked aloud, then put her head down on her desk and cried.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which We Observe a Conference

There were five people around the table in the conference room, grouped around the end like it was an island. Five people, four cameras – not a surveillance problem at all. On one side of the table, Miller, the kid from SHIELD-B, placidly swiped documents from his phone, a recent upgrade upon his arrival, to the overhead screen at the head of the table. A map, some medical scans, a few pictures...to his right, unusually sitting, Barton, who had somehow managed to get on his trademark vest and was still wearing the sling. Dark smudges under his eyes testified to a sleepless night, meaning he had no doubt dumped his painkillers down the drain. Typical. Across the table, Romanoff looked none the worse for the wear, but she never did. Technically, she was going against orders by being in this meeting. Winter Soldier matters were outside her purview. She had gone about it in the right way, though, requesting permission in early in the morning from the agent in charge. Not worth fighting about it. Next to her, Rogers slumped, gaze fixedly on the table and eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He, too, hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep last night and appeared to be in a pretty bad mood. No one would blame him for being upset, but he was going to need to get over that and fast. Petulant babies had no place in SHIELD.

Ivy Carter, the agent in charge, looked like she hadn’t slept at all. Pointedly seated at the head of the table, she had come into the meeting with a giant briefcase and an even bigger mug of coffee, which she was taking long draws of in between her sentences. Huge purple rings went halfway down her cheeks. Still, she was holding together well, explaining the latest intel clearly and concisely, without gaps in logic or too many “ers”. Impressive.

“I dispatched a team to investigate,” she was saying now, “and they found a previously unknown underground bunker. This obviously explains why the Target was able to disappear so quickly and completely. As so many hours had passed, they only ascertained that he had been there. It was judged more useful, at that point, to employ the tracker.”

“Any word on why there was no movement at first?” Barton asked, shifting uneasily in his chair.

Carter looked to the kid, who appeared to be acting as the primary information dump zone. Putting down his phone, he rose slightly before answering. “It’s a combination of outmoded tech and the fact that he didn’t move straight away, sir. There was some evidence that he had camped out in the bunker.”

“So we could have got him if we’d explored further at the time.”

“Well, yes.” The young agent’s game face flickered at Barton’s straight shot, but he recovered quickly. “However, we did do a sweep of the area, sir, and further investigation seemed unwarranted.”

Barton didn’t press, but sent Romanoff a glance that made his feelings on the matter perfectly clear. She pursed her lips, obviously in agreement. What the two of them were forgetting was that this was a brand-new, understaffed team with no directions from higher up. Many a freshman team had done worse, with more supervision. Carter didn’t let it bother her – at least she didn’t show it – and continued, taking a huge gulp of coffee as her assistant sat down. “At first glance, this is a missed opportunity. However, it signifies something encouraging: he is likely unaware of the tracker. If he knew about it, it would have been properly stupid to sit tight.”

“Given his record, it could also be fiendishly subtle,” Barton suggested, being a smart-aleck as usual.

Carter didn’t give him an inch. “Either way, he’s got the tracker in him now, which is a point to us.”

Rogers spoke for the first time, voice hard as he continued to glare at the table. “How do you know he hasn’t shaken it off or removed it?”

“It’s a blood tracker, sir. It bonds to the proteins in his muscles.”

Surprising no one had explained that before; the satisfaction of victory was borderline gleeful. Setting the irony aside, if you could, the fact was that they could never lose the Winter Soldier again as long as he lived, and even awhile after that. Rogers seemed to appreciate the irony, but not with pleasure. “We know where he is. Why aren’t we going after him, then?”

“We are.” Carter thought the better of her words and amended them. “At least, we will be. The tracker is unable to give us more than a general location – it’s _really_ old, Steve – and we want to be sure before we move.”

“I appreciate that, Agent, but I think we need to move as quickly as possible.”

There was a flash of irritation in Carter’s eyes, but she kept it out of her voice. “We are, Captain. Rest assured.”

“How?” Rogers demanded, his tone empty of his usual politeness and none of his good nature in his face. Barton leaned back in his chair, enjoying this. A true professional, Romanoff kept herself from raising her eyebrows; Carter, much newer, obviously couldn’t.

“I’m sorry; pardon my desire to make the facts perfectly clear before moving on. Chris can only type so fast with his thumbs. If there are no more questions, we can continue.”

This time, Romanoff did let an eyebrow flicker in amusement, no doubt for Barton’s benefit, as he was now openly smirking. Rogers subsided, grinding his teeth, and Carter coolly changed the overhead to a world map. A red line, originating in Greenland, bisected Europe. “He’s making a reasonably consistent trail, more or less directly toward Moldova. Agent Romanoff, I’m not sure if you were aware that he mentioned a contact in that country? After research, we believe it to be this man.” A picture appeared, blurry and pixilated like it had been extracted and enlarged from a larger image. In it, a man darted around a corner, a long round package under his arm. It could have been a baguette - probably not. A coat collar obscured most of his face. “SHIELD ran across him by accident,” Carter said regretfully, “so we don’t have much information. He has, however, been identified as a rather brilliant technical engineer with a degree in medicine and familial ties to the Soviet Regime. His name is Ilya Curic.”

Romanoff’s face went blank. Until then, she had displayed her usual briefing face, a carefully calculated mix of attention and deference designed to put the lead agent at ease and completely faked. As were most of her facial expressions. It took a lot to snap her into the stone face, the only indicator you ever had that something real was going on underneath. Not looking at her, Barton leaned forward nonchalantly. “Can you get a clearer picture?” he asked. “It’s the 21st century, right?”

Miller immediately began tapping on his phone. “Not a clearer recent one. We have got an old one from when he was at university.”

“Show us that.”

Miller did as Barton suggested, filling the screen with a faded snapshot of a young man in a workshop, icy grey eyes coldly observant as he fiddled with the wires snaking out of a lump of C-4. “We have no record of this bomb,” he explained. “It appears to have been an assignment.”

“It was not,” Romanoff said, speaking for the first time. “That bomb, or one like it, was responsible for the Ambassador’s Luncheon in Sao Paulo.”

Carter and Miller, both too young to understand the significance of that reference, looked merely interested; Barton, fully aware, looked a little sick. “A whole block of slum tenements was detonated to distract emergency attention from the hotel where the ambassadors were meeting,” he explained to a completely lost Rogers. “’A  _tour de force_ of minor and mass destruction.”

“Did the Winter Soldier do that?” asked Rogers, himself a little green.

“No. But one of his known associates. This was just after the Sabbatical began.” Barton did not look at Romanoff, and she studiously avoided eye contact with anyone but Carter.

“At the time,” she said, “it was believed by everyone that Curic, Sr. was still in control of the workshop.”

Carter nodded, a dossier in her hand. “Our research indicated that father and son were estranged.”

“So we thought. Hence why we haven’t gone after him before. We shut down Pavel Curic years ago. There was no reason to believe that Ilya, or anyone, had continued his father’s activities.”

“But if, as it appears, he did,” Carter asked, taking a swig of now-cold coffee, “you think the Target would return to work with him, rather than make a clean slate of it with someone new?”

Romanoff paused, appearing to consider. “Yes,” she finally said. “The weapons that came out of that workshop were genius, simple, and brutally effective. A change in regime would make no difference.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Carter turned to Miller, who had been typing and scrolling furiously since the conversation began. “Chris, raise this in priority level. With Agent Romanoff’s identification, I’d say we’ve got a very strong lead.”

“But it doesn’t change anything,” Barton said suddenly. Both Carter and Romanoff turned to look at him and he elaborated, speaking to Carter but looking at his partner. “If it’s him, if it’s not, our plan to get Barnes is still the same.”

“Yes,” Romanoff said aloud, word heavy with meaning, obviously answering more than the question Barton had asked.

 Carter looked between the two senior agents, eyebrows drawn together. “There doesn’t appear to be any reason to change things,” she said with emphasis, drawing herself together and sitting up straighter. “As you say, the plan isn’t dependent on identifying the Target’s contact.”

“I disagree.”

Every eye now turned to Rogers, who had been quietly agitating through this whole conversation. He got to his feet and moved toward the screen, pointing behind him as he spoke. “If we know who this guy is, where he is, that he’s the one that built the ice capsules, that’s all we need to know. We can go in and get him. Make him tell us the antidote.”

“The antidote!” Carter cocked her head to one side, surprised but thoughtful. “I suppose we could, if it gets desperate. But the Target will probably know it as well. At this point there’s no need to stretch our resources; Curic isn’t our business.”

“But if we get him,” Rogers argued, “the Target doesn’t have any information we need any more. We can go after him more aggressively.”

“We can’t tell what information the Target has that we need,” Carter argued back, “and we won’t until we get him. Further aggression is not called for at present.”

Rogers snorted, stamping back to his seat. “If you say so.”

His attitude brought Carter to her feet. “Excuse me, _what_ was that?”

Turning to meet her indignant glare, Rogers shot back with one of his own. “I know things have changed, but in my time a man who killed and injured innocent people for his own gain was not a man we considered keeping alive if we didn’t have to. The Target has crossed that line. We need to just take him out.”

Color rose to Carter’s face as she answered, fighting to maintain control. “First, as I already said, we don’t know what kind of information the Target will bring us. Second, may I remind you that he hasn’t killed any one yet?”

The words tumbled out of Rogers’s mouth before she had finished her sentence. “Then we’ve been lucky.”

“I _certainly_ wouldn’t call it that.”

“Then he’s just been playing us, like a cat plays with a mouse before she eats it.”

She smacked the table with the palm of her hand, voice rising desperately. “But we’ve got him this time, don’t you see? With the tracker we know were he is at any given moment."

“And what he’s doing?” he accused.

She was not subdued. “No, of course not. But we can get him. Almost instantly!”

“Then what are we sitting here for?!”

“Because I said so, Captain! And I am the mission lead here and I will thank you to remember it!”

She stood with her shoulders back, chin up in a miniature mirror of Rogers’s stance. Eyes bright and hot, he stared back at her, one hand on his side. They had both flushed, and the air between them burned.

“Then, there’s the fact that I think he can be turned.”

Barton’s cool words were like ice cubes dropped in warm soda: a pop and a crack, followed by the fizzy burble of confusion. Both Carter and Rogers turned on him and sputtered, noises that didn’t turn into sentences, and Miller put his phone down with a surprisingly emphatic “blimey”. Only Romanoff remained still and calm, her expression open once more.

Carter was the first to recover, but only marginally: “How – why do you – what leads you to this conclusion, Agent Barton?”

He leaned back in his chair, the most at-ease figure in the room. “Based on my observation during the meet-up, I believe the Winter Soldier regrets his actions. He demonstrates signs of wishing to change.”

“What signs?” she pressed, rightfully unsatisfied with that answer.

“Essentially,” Barton said, “the look in his eyes.”

Rogers snorted incredulously. “No offence to your vision, but I was a heck of a lot closer to him than you were, and I didn’t see any regret. Not once. He doesn’t care about those people he hurt. He didn’t care about you when he shot you.”

“That’s only partly true,” Barton said, but Rogers wouldn’t let him finish.

“A man who doesn’t care,” he continued, voice rising, “isn’t a man anymore. He certainly isn’t Bucky. I don’t know who that man was, but one thing I know: my friend Bucky is dead.” Dropping into the chair, Rogers attempted to match Romanoff’s stone face. Without her years of practice, though, all it did was show every single emotion running through his head: misery, exhaustion, betrayal, anger. The other agents at the table – not to mention the one in the camera room - could hardly look at him; the depth of emotion was too personal to observe.

Barton cleared his throat, facing Carter deferentially. “What the Captain says is true. But Barnes – the Target – is tired of it. He doesn’t care, but he hates that he doesn’t care.”

Carter’s voice was flat as she responded, head drooping between her shoulders as she used balled fists to support her against the table. “What proof do you have, Agent Barton?”

“None. Only the evidence of my eyes.”

She looked up then, brushing the hair back from her blank, drained face. “That really isn’t enough, Agent – not even for you. I’ll take it into consideration, but I can’t change strategies based on a feeling.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said. “Even if he can be turned it might still be in our best interests to kill him. Just thought you should know.”

She sighed, sitting down as she did so. “The question is rather pointless anyway. Before we can decide whether to turn him or kill him, we have to _find_ him – and that is what I’m not sure how to do yet, not without significantly more surveillance equipment. And frankly, I doubt I’ll be allowed access to what we need.”

“They used cameras and facial recognition with Loki,” Rogers put in, voice flat.

“SHIELD-B hasn’t got very many and they won’t let us use them,” Miller responded. “Our equipment is kind of outdated and very hierarchical.”

“Yet another reason why they are B,” Romanoff muttered.

“No doubt,” Carter said tiredly, “but there it is. We will, of course, stakeout Curic’s residence and place of business, for what that’s worth, and continue to monitor the tracker in an attempt to triangulate a location to intercept the Target. If we could get access to cameras and the recognition software, maybe, but without it…”

“Without it you’re dead in the water.”

God bless Romanoff; it was about time they gave up pussy-footing around the facts and got to the point. Carter had reached the end of her resources and was going to have to ask for help one way or another. The question now hanging in the air, unspoken, was: which way?

Carter stood slowly, turning her back to the others seated at the table and facing the image on the screen without seeming to see it. They let her have silence for nearly two minutes, each occupied with their own thoughts. Finally, Miller spoke up respectfully. “If you like, Agent Carter, I could put in a request for-”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?” he asked, obviously not sure he had heard correctly.

Carter looked at him over her shoulder, resolve like flint. “No. The time for requesting is done. Follow me, Chris – we need to go make some demands.”

To his credit, Miller followed her immediately, grabbing his phone and remembering to turn off the screen as the door slammed shut behind him. The three agents left in the room continued talking, but it was far more interesting to watch Carter progress through the halls, accosting people for directions as she went. It would take her four minutes, tops. And three…two…one…

The door to his office shot open and she stood in the doorway, Miller looking concerned over her shoulder. “Sir,” she said, “I need to speak with you regarding some authorizations I require to perform my job adequately.”

Nick Fury leaned back in his chair impressively and tamped down a smile. Here was the answer: the right way. He couldn’t make it too easy for her, though. “You could put in a request through normal channels.”

“No sir. I will never get the support I need if I do that.” She pushed her hair over her shoulders and regarded him levelly. “I’ve tried.”

He looked down at the desk and pushed a file around, letting the time stretch until he could feel her impatience. When he spoke, it was dangerously casual. “You’re on the Winter Soldier thing, is that right?” She nodded, surprised, and he continued. “I’ve got a lot of people, Agent Carter, juggling a lot of things. Some of them are earth-shatteringly important – and I mean that literally. So. You have two minutes to convince me you should have access to my very expensive equipment to find one pesky assassin. Go.”

Miller slumped against the door frame, but Carter stood her ground. “Sir,” she said, determination in every line of her body, “if you would give me that access I would hunt down the Target within 48 hours and bring him into custody. We already know generally where he is, so it would just be a matter of a specific location with enough time to get there. Then you could get back to business with your other problems.”

“That would be true for anyone we’re hunting.”

“Yes, sir. But everyone you’re hunting hasn’t taken out two of your elite earth-defending team. Personally, I’d like to shut down anything that threatens them as soon as I could.”

Nice point. “But why you? Why shouldn’t I give this to someone with more experience?”

She didn’t even hesitate in her response. “Because he’s beaten me twice, and I’m getting bloody tired of it.”

That was all he needed to hear. Spinning on his heel, he stared out the window without speaking. “Sir?” she asked after a minute, “have I got my equipment?”

He let another minute go by before he answered, turning his eyepatch towards her. “Get your butt up to the Bridge and start giving directions,” he said, “and then go to bed and sleep until they find him. I hate drool on my keyboards.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Things Look Up, Finally

After the door slammed shut behind Ivy and Chris, the air in the room, heavy with everything that had been said, pressed on Steve like a weight. As if he needed anything else; his worries of the last 24 hours were already hanging like millstones around his neck. _Bucky gone, something evil. Bucky gone, something evil._ Like a burrowing tick, Barton’s  _he can be turned_ joined the refrain. It was too much – had been too much since the minute he looked into the eyes of the man with his friend’s face and saw nothing there. He thought he might break under it. Who was he kidding? he already had. Burying his hands in his hair, he bowed his head and tried to keep himself from groaning. Damn all this. He was so tired.

“It’s about time,” Agent Romanoff said. Steve looked up bleakly, catching Barton’s nod of agreement out of the corner of his eye. “She’s going to have to be a lot quicker if she wants to go places.”

“She’s still deciding, I think.” Barton spun his chair and propped his legs up on the vacant seat next to him. “Surprised it took her this long, though. She was quicker the first time.”

“It’s probably better this way. Nothing like a fire under your butt to win over the Director.”

Steve shook his head, not sure if he was hearing things correctly or if he had passed into a semi-hallucinatory state. Ivy? They were thinking about, analyzing _Ivy_ right now? “Excuse me, _what_ are you talking about?”

The two agents turned to him, matching eyebrow flickers. “Carter,” Romanoff answered, as if it was obvious. “She should have gone to Fury way before now. He’s just been waiting for her to ask.”

“How do you know?” Steve hadn’t thought of Fury almost since this thing started, the Director being an intentionally out-of-sight-out-of-mind kind of person. “I thought he was in Southern Korea.”

Barton grimaced and began rubbing his shoulder. “Fury’s got fingers in more than one pie. Who do you think moved the mission to the Helicarrier?”

“Stop that,” Agent Romanoff rapped, and Barton obeyed, with an eye roll. They were so easy together, so comfortable. Like they knew each other without even trying. Steve tried to push aside an irrational swell of anger, but only managed to deflect it towards someone who was not in the room and able to hurt him. “All this time, he’s been watching her? Why didn’t he step in sooner?”

Getting to his feet, Barton stretched his good arm over his head. “Help at the wrong time can be worse than none,” he said cryptically, and made his way to the door.

Agent Romanoff didn’t look up as he passed her. “Take your medication or I’m going to shove it down your throat with my pinkies.”

“When you let yourself get fat,” he responded, shutting the door behind him firmly.

Steve looked sidelong at Agent Romanoff, who shrugged nonchalantly and leaned her elbows on the table. “He has a point, though.”

“What does he even mean?”

“Just that he can’t do his job drugged up.” He wasn’t sure what she saw on his face, but it was enough to make her lose her levity and reconsider her answer. “The other thing? What he said. In this job, you have to figure things out yourself. A lot of times, that’s all you’re going to get.”

“But if Fury knew she needed help, wouldn’t it have been better-”

She cut him off, shrugging. “Ours is not to reason why, Captain.”

He mentally filled in the rest of the quotation and spat out, “Phooey!” That amused her, he thought, but she kept it under control as he continued vehemently. “You don’t just do as you’re told. That’s ridiculous.”

“Actually, I do.” She paused a half-second before adding, “Most of the time. Unless it’s wrong. Or stupid.”

“Of course,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Naturally not then.”

“Not ‘of course’, Captain.” He voice suddenly had a steel edge. “There are plenty of people and agencies out there who will kill you before you have a chance to disobey them.”

“The bad guys.”

She regarded him levelly, eyes unfathomably dark. “Anybody ever tell you where I got my start?”

“No.” He spun the chair around and stood. It was time to get out of here; he did not know if he could stand one more bombshell today. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Killing people for a living.”

He reeled around on his heel and held out both hands in front of him, begging her to stop so he didn’t have to literally flee the room. “Agent Romanoff.”

“At first,” she continued, drawing invisible designs on the table with a forefinger, “I was too young to know better. Then I didn’t care.” Looking up at him then, her eyes seemed to burn holes in him. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t, and cursed Barton for leaving him alone. “They were awful things, Captain. Children – whole hospitals – the poor and homeless. I killed them all, and cruelly.”

“Stop,” he said, feeling bile rise with every word she spoke.

“It’s all true. And worse.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“And I didn’t even care.”

“Stop!” He slammed his hand down on the table with a resounding thud, and she stopped, abruptly, staring at him with that same guarded expression. “Just stop,” he said again. “You are not like that. I’ve seen you fighting. You care.”

“Yes,” she said, “Funnily enough, I do.”

He expected something more, but she seemed to have said everything she wanted to. Regarding him coolly with what he might have called satisfaction in anyone else, she nodded once before pushing back from the table. “Always a pleasure, Captain. See you around.”

And with that she was gone, and he was alone. Again. Always.

* * *

 

The next 24 hours, Steve wished, for the second time in his life, that he was a drinking man. Ironic, really – the first time, Bucky was dead; this time, Steve only wished he was. If he was dead, at least it was over, and he could stop the endless swirling repetitions in his head: _Bucky gone – something evil – can be turned – should be killed_ _– Bucky gone_. Nothing could drown it out. Certainly, nothing when he wandered the halls by himself, no one to talk to. Agent Romanoff had left, taken off on another mission; Hill gave him a nod in the hall, but barely tolerated his presence on the Bridge; Chris, when he saw him in the bathroom, was cautiously optimistic about their progress. Ivy, he never saw. According to Chris, she had bearded Fury in his den and gotten her permissions, instantly beginning a sweep of Europe for any hint of the Target, anywhere. He wished her luck, but he wasn’t needed. It was just waiting, waiting, no one talking, everything on edge. He split the time between the gym, where he pounded two bags into oblivion, and the tiny kitchen, where Barton was spending his recovery time perfecting a one-handed soufflé. The company helped Steve, though it was as silent as anywhere else. At this moment, Steve thought he might have welcomed Stark’s endless patter.

“Eating your feelings?” Barton asked, sometime in the 26th hour.

Steve gloomily lifted the spoon and let the slightly runny egg mixture slide back into the little dish. “Why not? It doesn’t affect me.”

“It’s a flat, disgusting soufflé, Captain. No one should eat it.”

It was both those things, a sloppy waste of the ingredients and time Barton had put into it. He looked at it blankly before working up the energy to choke down another bite. “Waste not, want not.”

“If that’s how you feel,” Barton said, whipping furiously at yet another egg mixture, “I’ll put into a pan like a scramble.”

“I don’t think you can save it,” Steve said, making no move to push over the dish.

“Most times you can.”

Barton’s words sounded casual, but as usual, Steve knew they were not meant casually. There was always something behind what he said, like a painting covered by another image. This time, the hidden meaning was clear. Steve had been wrestling with it since Agent Romanoff had left the room yesterday. _Something evil, can be turned._ “Can I ask you a question?”

“Can’t promise I’ll answer.”

“It is true Agent Romanoff was an assassin?”

“She still is.”

“But I mean-” he hesitated. “Like the Target. She told me she had done terrible things.”

Barton looked up sharply before going back to his mixture. “Is that what she told you?”

“Is it true?”

“What makes you think it isn’t?”

Steve snorted, stirring the soufflé around angrily. “I’m not stupid, you know. She was trying to tell me something yesterday. I know how spies work – say one thing, mean another. She could have made the whole thing up.”

“Much as that would solve your problem, she didn’t.” Barton stopped whisking and turned away, gently pouring the eggs into a pan he had ready on the stove. That, his tightly sprung back seemed to say, was the end of the conversation.

“What makes you think I have a problem?”

Barton didn’t dignify that with a response, stirring the pan as if he hadn’t heard the question. Of course. Steve pushed his chair back from the table sharply, grabbing the egg mess and stomping to the trashcan with it. Jaw set in a determined line, Barton turned and looked at him intently. “Give me that.”

“No,” Steve said, just as firmly. “We’ll throw it away. That’s all it’s good for now.”

“You don’t know that, Captain.”

 _Bucky gone, something evil, Bucky gone, something evil._ “But even if you manage to scramble them, they still aren’t eggs!”

Thankfully, Barton didn’t respond to that idiotic comment. But he didn’t just go back to his work, either; instead he looked at Steve, just looked, calmly, steadily, like he had x-ray vision and could see straight through Steve. It was unnerving. Steve squirmed, breathing heavily, suddenly aware of his heart rate. Good. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, his stupid condition was going to flare up. Stumbling back to the chair, soufflé in hand, he began his slow breaths. Breathe in, breathe out, calm down a.s.a.p. And don’t take this out on Barton – it’s not his fault. “Look,” he began, only to be cut off by a persistent _bring-brring_ from his pocket. Digging out his phone, he grimaced at the name that appeared on the screen. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered before answering, “Steve Rogers.”

Dr. Gervis’s voice was on double speed; Steve thought he sounded like a squirrel, if squirrels talked. “You’re cured! I’ve found it, eureka! I should go running naked through the streets.”

He had just enough time to be entirely disgusted before registering the first part of the doctor’s speech. “You found the cure?”

“Something pretty darn like it! We’ve been testing your blood in these little petri dishes and we finally thought to hit it with a little-”

“Gervis, I’m not going to understand what you’re telling me. What does it do?”

“Melts the thing. Evaporates the problem. I don’t know, but it makes the crystal signature disappear, and that’s all we’re looking for. How soon can you get here?”

“There’s a little problem with that.” Steve looked around the room, trying to calculate the time and distance from home. “I’m still on the Helicarrier, and I don’t know when I can get back. I’ll have to find someone to fly me. Those things usually take awhile.”

Gervis sounded disappointed. “As soon as you can, then. The sooner the better.”

“As soon as I can,” Steve promised, and hung up the phone.

* * *

 

Steve had left the kitchen immediately, but it took Barton ten minutes from the time he slid his soufflés in the oven to line up a plane (“called in a favor”, he said) and Steve was sitting on the jet before they had cooled enough to eat. It was so fast, he hadn’t had enough time to figure out the nagging suspicion that he was forgetting something. However, there were other things demanding his attention, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. Pad open on his knee, he pretended to sketch something to avoid conversation. Not that Barton, leaning his head back against the wall, was ever one for small talk. They rode quietly for two hours.

He scribbled circles and thought hard. More accurately, his thoughts pounded along the same well-worn trails they had been travelling the last 36 hours: _Bucky gone, something evil, can be turned, should be killed, Bucky evil, Bucky gone_. He wished Barton had continued his characteristic pattern and kept his mouth shut. He wished Agent Romanoff had not decided to be all of a sudden forthcoming about her past. It would have been easier if Bucky could just be dead. Then he could deal with the Target on his own terms, as a bully to be stopped, as a thing that would destroy until he was destroyed instead. As it was, he had to keep reminding himself harshly that his friend was gone, or he would fall back into the same trap he had lived in for three months. As long as he believed Bucky was still alive, Steve realized with a glance at Barton, it was a risk.

But then: _can be turned_. If Barton thought – if Agent Romanoff had – but no! He shoved the idea away firmly. That was what had got them into this mess in the first place. Much better to ignore in entirely. That was what Ivy was doing, he hoped. She had said as much, hadn’t she? That Barton’s say-so wasn’t enough? Though he, Steve, would place a lot of worth on Barton’s say-so…and the circles resumed their incessant march. He was so deep in the trenches, his phone rang five times before he even recognized it.

“Hello, this is Steve Rogers.”

“Steve? We’ve got him.”

He sat bolt upright, the pad dropping onto the floor and the pencil rolling away under his seat. “The Target? You have the Target?”

If he had any doubts, her breathless voice dispelled them entirely. Never, to his recollection, had she sounded so excited. “I’m scrambling a team right now. Don’t be hurt you’re not on it?”

“I’m not.” His stomach dropped out from under him as he remembered, finally, what had been bothering him. “Ivy, I-”

She went on, not listening. “He must have felt safe because he went to a known Soviet safe house – that that it’s been used that way for ages, of course-”

“Ivy-”

“-we’ve got clear identification, no room for error, and as I said the team’s already dispatched. They’re taking him back to England because we’ve already got it set up. Chris and I are headed there now. Will you come with us?”

“Well, there’s a problem with that.” He looked guiltily at the two pilots. “I’m already on a plane headed the opposite direction.”

“Oh!” The excitement drained away, leaving her voice flat. “You might have said before.”

“I forgot.” He wanted to smack himself. Across the way, Barton failed to hide a smirk. “It happened so fast, I just didn’t remember. I’m sorry.”

Cool tones let him know he was not forgiven. “Going home, I expect.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it’s more comfortable for you.”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Gosh, he was making a mess of this; was he ever going to learn? “Yes, but that’s not why. Gervis called. He thinks he’s figured out a cure.”

“Oh, Steve!” The fireworks were back, and his own mood went shooting into the sky with them. “That’s fantastic! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you blinking eejit!”

He should have, of course, told her as a superior officer. But he realized, surprised, that’s not how she meant. In truth, he hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t realized she would care in the middle of everything. Wasn’t tracking down the Target important to the exclusion of all else? Apparently not! “You’re the first person I told,” he said, laughing. “Is that enough?”

“Certainly not. In future, I demand to be told before you know yourself.”

“Might be difficult.”

“You’ll find a way.” Silence came over the line, quiet enough that, despite the wind-rushed sound of the plane, Steve could hear her breaths. He sat in it, knowing somehow that she was smiling on the other end. “Seriously,” she said finally, “I’m really pleased. Touch wood, we’ve finally turned the corner and will be done soon.”

No more treatments, no more pain, no more kidnappings and beatings, not more strained briefings or worried eyes. Please, finally, let everything be _done_. “I hope so.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is Heavily Inspired by Alias

Holding her headset to her chest, Ivy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Here, she told herself, went everything. After her promise to Fury, if this didn’t work out it would be back to the archives for her. More than that, the Target would disappear again, messing with everybody’s peace of mind and driving Steve into who knows what dark place; as she told Fury, she was done with that. But it was going to work out. Her strike team was going to go in there and get him, absolutely. She took another breath, willing herself to believe her own pep talk, and placed the headset gingerly. These SHIELD-B consoles were not as comfortable as the Helicarrier’s. “Strike team leader, confirm copy.”

“Confirm.” The voice was low-pitched, steady; Ivy was instantly confident of his overall competence. She motioned to Chris to turn it up and flicked the surveillance cameras to include the leader’s head-cam herself. A quiet residential alley, overshadowed by tall brick houses, faded into view. In a patch of orange light, Ivy spotted a lonely tricycle down the way and mentally thanked the Target for driving out all the civilians with his habitual “gas leak”. Her team leader spoke again. “Target confirmed present?”  

“Confirmed, leader. There’s a heat signature in the second floor front room. Target appears to be sleeping.”

“He gives off a heat signature?”

She had found it hard to believe, too, remembering his ice-cold hands in the Russian mountain. “He still has blood, agent – he has to emit something.”

“Copy. We’re headed in.”

She watched them move in from the wide angle, transmitting from a camera on the opposite roof. Two agents, head-to-toe in black, swarmed out of the shadows, coming to the front of the house and looking up. “In position,” Ivy heard Leader say, and three nylon ropes spiraled down towards the ground. With quick efficiency, the stocky team leader hooked himself and the slim security specialist into the harnesses, weaving the ropes through the stopping mechanisms. “Secured?”

Out of sight on the rooftop, the third team member gave a verbal thumbs-up. “Secured.”

Swinging their rifles to their backs, the agents on the ground began a slow climb up the four-story building, straddling the ropes and gathering the slack as they went. It felt like a lifetime, but with the rifles and the leader’s satchel of equipment encumbering them, Ivy supposed they couldn’t go much faster.

At the first floor window, they stopped, locking their climbing gear and swinging free from the wall.

“Is there a problem, agents?” she asked, sweeping the cameras for anything untoward. She hadn’t heard anything, but their mikes weren’t that sensitive…

“Negative.” The specialist spoke under her breath, detaching a zippered pocketbook from somewhere on her body. “You said second, right?”

Ivy muted herself and made a face at Chris. “Oh lord. That almost gave me a heart attack.” He didn’t respond, and she flicked the mike back on. “My fault, agents – you’d call it the third floor.”

“Copy that.”

They resumed their way up; Ivy resumed breathing. Everything was fine.

At the second/third floor window, Leader pulled out a pair of night vision goggles and cupped them to the window, peering into the room as Security retrieved her pouch. “Minimum of furniture in the room,” he breathed, “no sign of Target. Signature still present?”

“Affirmative.” She peered at the reads again, panicked, but Chris gave her a thumbs-up. There was just the one heat signature, and they hadn’t seen another person enter or leave the building since they started watching it. “Any other life forms-”

“Oh, wait.” A pause. “He’s here. There’s some sort of screen blocking most of the cot.”

That could be anything – a dummy, a hostage, a corpse. She pushed the wisps of hair out of her face and pulled at the end of her braid. “But it is confirmed the Target?”

Security answered. “I can see him. Confirmed.”

She had been wrong before. Here, properly, went everything. But then she realized: when this worked, they would _have_ the Winter Soldier. In that case, _everything_ wasn’t too much to lose. Her tone was solid as Gilbraltar as she gave the order. “Proceed.”

On that cue, the security expert opened her case and pulled out a small black device, about the size and shape of a cd. Holding it by the handle, which was perpendicular to the circular base, she carefully placed it in the center of the window and pushed until it attached with a tiny squeak. She then lowered the handle until it was parallel with the window and began using it to trace a circle as coolly as if she were following a perforated guideline. Ivy rather thought she was whistling under her breath. The circle complete, she pulled the laser back up, using the arm once again as a handle and removing the glass plug from its newly cut hole. Apart from a slight grating noise, the whole procedure had been silent. Step One: done.

As Security put away her tool, Leader dug a surveillance snake from his satchel and fed it through the hole, keeping it close to the glass. The tiny camera, mounted on the end of a flexible metal rod, transmitted an image to both Chris’s desktop and the small screen Leader now turned toward Security. Ivy could hardly distinguish the picture, but the other agent nodded. In another minute she had disabled the window alarm. Step Two: check.

“The easy part went well,” Chris said in the pause as the agents prepared themselves for the next step. Ivy laughed mirthlessly, eyes glued to the screens.

“Roof, I’m bringing out the stinkbug. Mask on?”

“Copy,” Roof responded, sounding a bit like he was rolling his eyes. Roll his eyes all he wanted; there was no promising he would be out of the danger zone. Better safe than sorry.

Gingerly, Leader reached again into his sack, emerging with a small box about 2½ inches square. He flicked the catch and held the open box out to Security, looking for all the world like the world’s most terrifying proposal. If the thought occurred to Security, she didn’t give a sign; taking a domed disk from the case, she shook it twice and shot it neatly through the hole. Ivy was unable to see where it landed in the dark room, but from the pleased noise Leader made, she assumed it was a good toss.

Without being told, Chris activated the onscreen countdown. The green digits flashed once, then began speeding fast almost faster than Ivy’s eye could distinguish. “Thirty seconds,” he said into the comm., and the agents onscreen nodded.

“Copy.”

She couldn’t look away from the timer. Thirty seconds until action, twenty-eight until they would have him, twenty-six until it would be done. After that she blinked and lost track; it ran together in a blur but she was counting under her breath so she knew when it was twenty seconds left, knew when it was ten. At seven seconds, she sent a mental note to Steve, speeding to his cure: _we’re almost there_. At four she realized that even though her heart was pumping and her breath was fast, her mind was perfectly clear and her braid hung down her back untouched. Whatever happened next, she was ready. Three crocodile. Two crocodile. One.

Leader’s voice came over the line, echoing in his gas mask. “We’ve got go, base. Are we clear?”

She answered without hesitation. “Proceed. But please use caution, agents.”

“Copy that.”

Leader swung his rifle around his back and placed the muzzle through the empty circle of glass. Ivy hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. If the Stinkbug had done its job correctly, the gun would be superfluous; the potent mixture of gasses inside the device should have sent the Target into a nap like Sleeping Beauty’s. _Should_ , of course, being the operative word. Her researches into the Target’s early years had suggested he would be vulnerable to gas attacks, but that was 60 years ago, and who knew since then? Still, neither Leader nor Security appeared concerned, and Security was now an easy target, swinging back and forth in front of the window as she coated the glass with an adhesive silicon mat. The mat, a technology Ivy found properly cool, kept the glass pieces together and muffled the sound when Security smashed in the window with the butt of her rifle. The whole thing fell noiselessly onto the floor of the room, leaving them a wide, unalarmed entrance. Ivy could have applauded.

In dead silence, Security lowered herself through the window, one hand on her Glock. Leader followed, less gracefully. Once inside, the two moved into the darkness and unclipped their harnesses. The long strings, their best escape route, would only hamper their movements going forward. Now Ivy needed that steadying breath; any second she expected the dimly-seen figure on the cot to leap to his feet and start shooting. Realising the wide view was now essentially worthless, she made the head-cam full screen and filtered it with night vision. “Watch the house,” she directed Chris without looking, knowing he would obey immediately. Perhaps it was her responsibility to keep the wide-view but at this moment, she just couldn’t. Everything she had been working for the last three months was happening in that tiny, black room half a world away.

Leader moved cautiously toward cot, still blocked by the screen he had mentioned on his initial assessment. Motioning Security forward, Ivy assumed to take the screen’s place blocking the light, he pulled it back three centimeters, then another three, until the Target’s pale face and neck were fully exposed. Ivy considered him impassively. It was amazing, the way he gave the impression of ice, even in the dim orange street light spilling through the window. The lines of his face were cold and hard, unmovable; try as she might, Ivy couldn’t imagine the regret Agent Barton swore he had seen there. But no matter. That was not, thank God, the situation at hand.

Shuffling to keep his body between the light and the Target, Leader allowed Security to pass him and make her way to the body. With one gloved hand, she took his pulse; after a few seconds, she bent over his face and pulled up an eyelid. Chris moved uneasily in his chair. “Too bloody close…” he muttered, and Ivy agreed. They leaned closer to their screens, eyes darting, on high alert for any sign of danger.

“He appears to be…out cold.”

Ivy jumped, heart pounding. Security’s voice, no longer modulated by a whisper, had sounded as loud as a shot – but it wasn’t a shot, it dawned on her, quite the opposite – a joke! A pun, even! For a SHIELD agent to make a pun in the middle of a mission, she must be feeling confident of success. It was…a success. She looked at Chris to find him smiling – actually smiling! – and knew he was just reflecting back her own expression. She couldn’t quite keep the glee out of her voice as she pushed back from the desk and spun the chair around in a circle. “Bring him in, agents.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Begins and Ends With a Window

She stood behind the two-way glass, watching. On the other side, in one of HQ’s few tiny, bulletproof cells, the Winter Soldier lay still as a carving on medieval tomb. Ivy wouldn’t have thought he was still alive, were it not for the array of monitors displaying his vital statistics. She glanced at them to verify, but they were still steady. Incredible, really. She had gone home, slept a glorious ten hours, stopped for a coffee, spoken to Steve twice, written up her mission report and badgered Chris for his, and _still_ the Target lay there, dead asleep. It was truly a pleasure, she reflected, working with tech that did what it said on the tin.

Well – she sighed, pushing her hair over one shoulder – no point in stopping here. With the Target achieved, all that was left was to question him, and that couldn’t be done, obviously, at the moment. They would call her when he woke up. Standing here any longer would smack of gloating. Only, she admitted as the door to Detention slid shut behind her, she wasn’t sure what one did, when one’s mission ended. Close up the file, probably, and shelve it away for future reference. If anybody would want to reference files on an eliminated threat.

She took the lift up to her office and paused in the doorway, seeing it afresh. Though she and Chris had come here to await the Target’s arrival, neither had paid much attention to the piles of paperwork spread over the desk, bookshelf, and walls. Now, she marveled at the detritus. Somehow, out of those hours of surveillance and useless reports, the dead ends and the late nights and the Deputy Director’s stupidity, somehow they had managed it. It was hard to believe that she would never need to look at this anymore.

Running a hand affectionately across the web on the wall as she passed it, she made her way over to the desk and called Robbie to request an archive box for the loose materials, accepting his congratulations with a grin from ear-to-ear. “Everybody’s talking about you, girl,” he said. “We supporters couldn’t be prouder, to see one of our own making good.”

“I’m awfully proud myself,” she admitted, “but I won’t let it go to my head. The credit’s not properly mine.”

Robbie promised to have the box sent up and rang off, chuckling. Ivy was serious, though; she couldn’t possibly take the credit for herself. Too many other people had worked as hard and gone through more to take the Target down – not only Steve and Agent Barton, but the countless agents who had lived the dusty reports she was now replacing in their boxes. What she had done, as difficult as it had been, was little enough in the grand scheme of things. Steve, too, had hit this note the first time she talked to him, though he took issue with her insistence that her part had been minimal.

“It isn’t nothing,” he had said firmly.

“Not _nothing_ ,” she agreed, “but it’s not as if I’m the one that got shot.”

“But Barton is fine, and I’m going to be. You did most of the hard part.”

“With Chris.”

“Well, if you don’t want _any_ of the credit…”

“Only, I was taught it’s nice to share,” she had said, laughing, and listened with pleasure to the chuckle on the other end. Before she could ask her next question, he had been called away for the next round of treatments, and she had been made to call back later. This time, no one laughed.

“No. I don’t want to see him.”

She had stopped writing abruptly, taken aback. “Not ever?” The words tumbled out of her mouth, ungainly.

He paused before answering; she understood why when he finally spoke.

“Not until you know.”

It wasn’t like Steve to equivocate, to be intentionally vague, but she knew what he meant and didn’t ask him for more. His stoic tone, while a valiant effort, couldn’t hide the lump in his throat. So she planned her interrogation without him; goodness knew there was plenty to cover. The appearance of Ilya Curic opened the door to a whole host of questions SHIELD hadn’t even known to ask.

_Who helped you hide?_

_Where have you been?_

_How many of your old friends are still around?_

She sighed, pausing her pack-up of the files to look over her list of Interrogation Topics. The sooner she could get started on that, the better; less time to talk herself out of confidence. It was a daunting task, tackling a prisoner of the Winter Soldier’s stature, and her time observing interrogations had happened a very long time ago. Things like that, they really should offer refresher courses. There had been guidelines, she remembered: _assert_ your strength; _define_ their position; _offer_ an easier way…what came after that? You didn’t jump straight to _threaten_ , did you? She was sure she had written it down somewhere…stacking the archive boxes in two large piles, she turned to her computer and began a hunt.

Due to the meticulous organizational system she had kept since her early days at SHIELD, Ivy quickly located the notes and committed them to memory, chanting the steps aloud until she had them word perfect. The phone remained silent. After that, she plotted out her opening statement; after that, she went down the hall for tea and biscuits. Still, the phone remained silent. Finally, after another hour – now the seventeenth since the Stinkbug had been deployed – she decided to take matters into her own hands.  

“Detention.”

“Good afternoon, this is Ivy Carter. I’m calling regarding the Winter Soldier; is he awake yet?”

The desk clerk politely asked her to hold, which she did with barely held-together grace, and came back with the news that the Winter Soldier had indeed woken up, but was in lockdown and unable to be questioned. Cheery at first, he wore down as he answered her increasingly bullet-like questions. No, it didn’t have a time limit. No, it wasn’t medical. No, it wasn’t a security concern. Well, there was a restriction on the access. No, he couldn’t say why. He didn’t know, sir; there was no explanation. Well, when the issuing agent was Commander Conley, nobody asked questions, would you?

At which answer Ivy nearly dropped the phone. Commander Conley was SHIELD-B’s Hill and Sitwell in one; an order from her was nearly an order from the Deputy Director himself. That could mean anything; most likely it meant that she was being relieved of duty. Somehow, she got off the call, hanging up in a daze. Give her another minute and she would be angry, no, she would be furious, but at present she only felt as though she had been punched. This was worse than the SHIELD brass’s refusal to cooperate with her requests at the beginning of the mission; by taking over the investigation without so much as a by-your-leave, they were refusing to trust her after she had already proven herself. The Winter Soldier, an assassin who had been on SHIELD’s most wanted list for five decades, was now in custody due to her efforts and planning. What more did she have to do to get them to see her as a capable agent?

Spitting out a few choice and immensely relieving words, Ivy put her head in her hands and stared, unseeing, at the list of questions on her desk. Next step, next step, okay. She could roll over and take it – not an option. She could go down to detention and make a fuss, for all the good that would do. She could go over the Deputy’s head to Fury, but he would no doubt be less than pleased at being bothered. Or – she looked up, suddenly certain of the only path to take. Grabbing the phone, she pressed the single button “2” and waited for it to connect.

It rang and rang – seven, ten, fifteen times. Ivy didn’t hang up. After the twentieth ring, she disconnected the call and tried again. This time, Commander Conley picked up immediately. “Agent Carter,” she said, a thin veneer of politeness over her words. “Is this regarding the Winter Soldier?”

“It is,” Ivy responded firmly, “and I believe you know what I have to say.”

“Indeed.” Like Commander Hill, Conley managed to fill one word with multiple inflections. “The Deputy Director” - _feels I’m unqualified_ , Ivy filled in mentally - “has requested that Agents Sloane and Patel take on the task. That does tell you the level of seriousness with which he’s treating this matter.”

It did; Sloane and Patel were high-ranking interrogation specialists and didn’t go out on just any old job alone, much less together. Another time, she would be flattered, honestly, but she didn’t have time to worry about that emotion now. “It’s odd, Commander, that it is only after the Winter Soldier is in custody that he finds the situation serious. I could have used help at that level several months ago.”

“Yes.” If that touched a chord, Ivy couldn’t hear it. “At the time, of course, we didn’t have the resources.”

“Quite. So I was forced to go to Director Fury about the whole thing.” She let that sit for a minute, during which Commander Conley said nothing. Once it had sufficiently sunk in, she added nonchalantly, “So if the Deputy Director is willing to lend me Agents Sloane and Patel, I’ll happily take them, but otherwise I’d like to handle it by myself. As I’ve done this whole time.”

Then she waited. Leaning back in her chair and twirling a lock of hair around her finger, she tried not to picture herself chained to the desk in archives and concentrated on what was not being said, namely, ‘you impudent pup, you’re a disgrace to the uniform’. As long as the Commander was silent, Ivy could hope that, like Fury, SHIELD-B valued initiative and would let her keep the responsibility she had been given. Otherwise –

“That’s all he had planned, Agent,” Conley finally said, smoothly. “He thought you might prefer experts, since the Winter Soldier is expected to be a tough nut to crack. They’re usually able to get quick results.”

Her mind raced. If that was true – not that she was sure she believed it – if it was, though, the situation was spun a completely different direction. The agency’s top interrogators – a reward? Perhaps. In that case, it would be foolish to turn down the opportunity...but she had wanted the pleasure herself…but wasn’t that selfishness the mark of an immature agent…? Considering, she spoke slowly. “I thank the Deputy Director, but I would like to speak to the Target myself first. There’s things between us we need to clear up.”

“Very well. I shall inform them to contact you for further instructions.” And, without waiting for a response, she hung up with a firm click in Ivy’s ear.

She leaned back in the chair, staring into space. The way, it slowly dawned on her as she fiddled with a pen, was clear. He was sitting down there, hutched in a tiny room where he couldn’t hurt anyone, just _waiting_. She could go down right now if she wanted. In fact, she would – just a flying visit to get the feel of him, then a word to her interrogators, then she was going to call Chris and his lads and Niamh from Transcription and invite them all for a drink. Or two, maybe! There was nothing, anymore, to require her completely sober attention at all times, and if she and Chris didn’t deserve it no one did. Decidedly, she swept up a sheaf of papers from her desk, along with a few files for camoflauge, and shut the door to her office firmly behind her. The satisfying click felt symbolic; she grinned as she went down the hall to the lift.

The detention clerk stood respectfully when she entered and insisted on escorting her to the dim interrogation room attached to the Target’s cell to demonstrate the window controls. The glass, an early Stark invention, had several different modes. “We set it at dark,” he explained, sliding a finger on the in-wall touch pad, “but you can make it two-way or transparent, however you like.”

She requested he leave it dark and thanked him, setting her armful of papers on the table between the pitcher of water and the digital recorder. The chair, she noticed with pleasure, was even nicer than the one in her office, and there was an electric kettle in the corner. How fortunate it was that the Target had an implanted weapon; the required sequestration allowed the interview room to be comfortable, rather than barren. She turned on the kettle and sat down to spread her papers across the table, wanting to make sure everything was to hand. The two files she piled up; the Interrogation Topics she set squarely in front of her; the papers she spread out until, surprised, she uncovered a photo that had been tacked to the web on her wall. It was one of the ones from the war: Steve and Bucky Barnes in the SSR bunkers, bent over a table. She thought that was Howard Stark lounging in the corner and there, back in the shadows, was her aunt. Ivy stared at it a minute, sober. Stark was dead, Barnes now before her as good as dead, Steve recalled to life, and her aunt – she checked her watch. Well, it was early yet.

She dealt with Tamsin as quickly as possible and sat drumming her fingers against her knee while the call was transferred. Then her favourite voice in the world came through the speaker, brisk but brimming with pride. “Congratulations, agent.”

“You _know_?” Ivy fell back in the chair. “I wanted to tell you myself!”

“You’ll have to be more on your toes, my girl. Nick phoned ages ago.” As if it were nothing that the Director would personally pass on the news, Aunt Peg continued. “Really, well done. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

The already warm glow in Ivy’s middle took on the feeling of champagne: light, golden, bubbly. “It wasn’t only me, but I accept my share of the compliment.”

“I hope you’ve celebrated appropriately.”

“Not yet. I’ve been busy. After I’m done here, I’m going out.”

“With Steve? It would be good for him.”

“He’s in New York; Gervis thinks they’ve found a cure for his icing over.”

“Everything in the garden is rosy, then?”

“It is!” She couldn’t help herself; she laughed aloud. “I almost can’t believe it, it’s too much. How could it all come right at once?”

“These things happen sometimes.”

The words were cheerful enough, but long practice enabled Ivy to pick-up on the undertone. Feeling some of the fizz evaporate, she sat silent, waiting for her aunt to finish the thought. It was not long in coming.

“Of course, it’s usually then that everything goes to hell.”

If Aunt Peg said it, you had to take it into consideration; anyway, Ivy had read and transcribed and scanned enough mission briefs to know the truth of it herself. But those were on-going missions, in the field, whereas this was as near to completed as it could be: the Target contained, Steve getting better. There wasn’t a way – was there? – that anything could happen now. Her spirits bubbled up again. “I’ll be on my guard. Only this time, I think we’ve got it sorted.”

“Well, if you say so, darling.” There was a trace of skepticism still, but Ivy elected to ignore it. “Come see me sometime and tell me all about it, hmm?”

“I will,” she promised, “soon. I must get back to it, though.”

“Of course. Good luck, agent.”

Coming from her, the customary send-off was a benediction. “Thank you, sir.”

Ivy hung up the phone and took a deep breath, rising to move to the window controls. It was time.

She first moved the control to two-way, wanting a chance to observe without being seen. The Winter Soldier was on his feet, pacing back and forth like a caged lion, cradling his gun arm with his other hand. If she pressed the speaker, she had no doubt she would hear him spewing invective; his eyes were burning with fury. She looked again for regret or sorrow and found none, whatever Agent Barton had said. Well, time would tell. They would never know just by looking.

As her hand hovered over the final button she was seized with a memory: December 15, 1995, the parish hall Christmas Pageant. The flutterings in her belly were precisely the same. “The curtain goes up,” she said aloud, and the glass shivered as it became translucent.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which...Well, You'll See

They stared at each other, not speaking. He, she noticed with the back of her attention, was not even blinking. All motion and fire a moment ago, he had frozen awkwardly, staring at the window with a completely blank expression. Ivy hoped her own face was equally as impassive as she strolled from the controls to lean back against the table. For some reason, she felt at a disadvantage back there in the corner, as if she was shrinking away from him – not the image she wished to portray. His eyes followed her hungrily, the dark smudges beneath like caverns. Before, he hadn’t looked at her like that. No doubt a lowly SHIELD agent captured to be bait in a trap hadn’t been worth that kind of attention. Now, when she appeared before him, situation reversed –

Clearing her throat, she turned slightly and reached behind her for the notes. Maybe he would see it as nonchalance. The throaty chuckle behind her dispelled that notion. Well, fine then. It didn’t change the fact that she had the upper hand. Jaw set in a passable Barton imitation, she turned back to find him now sitting on the edge of the cot, reclining against the wall. He smiled, that cold eerie smile she had tried to forget these last three months. “That glass is a pretty cool trick. Is it Stark’s?”

Of all the opening salvos, she doubted she would have hit on that one. “I really couldn’t say.”

“It probably was. Howard would have been proud of his boy.” The words were kind, but the tone was a sneer. Ivy fleetingly wondered if Tony Stark would count that a compliment, then pushed it out of her head as non-essential. More interesting was the Target’s strategy – to distract her? to catch her off guard? Either way, the best answer was nothing. She remembered that much.

When she didn’t respond, the smile disappeared and the silence stretched between them again. Silence, Ivy felt as she made a show of perusing her notes, was just as weighty as anything she could say. Silence said “I don’t have to rush into anything.” Silence said “We aren’t under pressure.” Silence said “You aren’t worth making a fuss about.”  The first principle of interrogation – _assert your strength_ – could be accomplished many ways.

When he spoke again, the forced lightness was evident. “I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never had a problem with the ladies, but this is a first for me. No one has ever gone to all this trouble just to look at me." 

He was trying to joke, to make her see him as less of a threat; foolish ploy. The time was too far gone for that. “You’re not really my type,” she retorted, not looking up.

“No? That’s just too bad.”

“It would never work anyway.”

“And why’s that?”

She looked up lazily, as if it was an effort to care enough to move her eyes from the paper. “I make it a point to avoid men who shoot my co-workers.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “your choice. You might enjoy it. Natalia loved it.”

She had to fight to keep a look of revulsion from leaping to her face. “I’m not here to talk about Agent Romanoff.”

He leaned in, the fire back in his eyes. “Then what are you here to talk about?”

“Nothing.”

That threw him; she could tell, even though all he did was blink twice and lean back again, matching her nonchalance and adding a mocking spin. “Oh, nothing? Just fancied a chat to pass the time of day?”

Her turn to shrug. “Essentially.” Boosting herself up to a perch on the table, she added, “There’s people coming later who will have things they want to discuss. But me? I just wanted to see if you look any different, now that we’ve beaten you.” Leaning forward, she dropped her voice and spoke slowly, each word directed at the mocking shell around him. “Because you are beaten, Barnes.”

Tilting his chin down, he raised both eyebrows, smirking. “Is that supposed to frighten me?”

“If you like.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Fine.” She shrugged again, getting down from the table to pour herself a glass of water. “Whether you’re frightened or not, the situation’s the same. You’re in a shatterproof, bulletproof cell with a feeding vent, fourteen levels below the ground. You won’t get out. And even if you do, we’ve got a tracker in you that can only be disabled if you kill yourself. We have you, and we always _will_ have you.” She paused to watch that sink in, wondering if she had gone far enough. Hard to say at what point a target would feel the truth of their position. He was good – after sixty years he should be – but she thought she saw him shift, just an inch, uneasily. It reminded her of Greenland, when Steve had made his impassioned plea; something wasn’t sitting right in that shell of a man. Sensing an advantage, she pressed in, allowing her words to carry their own impact. “So I would say – wouldn’t you? – that you are well and truly beaten.”

Speech finished, she sat quickly to hide her suddenly wobbly knees and took a gulp of water. Oh, he was good. No dilated pupils, no quickened breathing, no fidgets. But his tongue darted out quickly, moistening his lips; in that tiny gesture Ivy read a volume. She leaned back and made a note for Sloane and Patel. He said nothing. Having laid out everything she wanted, Ivy didn’t either.

After a minute, the mocking expression sprung back to his eyes. “Haven’t they ever told you, Agent, that the only beaten enemy is a dead one?”

“Don’t think we’ve ruled that out yet.” In truth, no one had decided what was to be done with him long term, a lack of foundation that made Ivy glad she wasn’t going to be carrying out more of the questioning. Without that knowledge, there was nothing to threaten with, much less tantalize.

As if he could read the doubts, he leapt on the hesitation she thought she had hidden. “Just waiting to see which way I jump? That’ll be a problem if I don’t decide to cooperate.”

“Oh no, it isn’t that. Just no one’s had the time to think about it. We’ve got more important things to deal with.” She smirked herself, hoping to give the impression that she found his self-importance quaint. “SHIELD isn’t terribly concerned with what an old Soviet assassin who hasn’t done much of anything in fifteen years has to say. Sorry if that wounds your ego, but there it is.”

He raised both eyebrows skeptically. “And yet, you put me in a shatterproof, bulletproof cell with an irremovable tracker. All that for one not-so-important prisoner?”

“We aren’t stupid.”

“No, I guess not.” Quiet again, he appeared to grow thoughtful. His eyes, roving over the objects in Ivy’s room, came to rest on her, a dark glint sending shivers down her spine. Oh, no, he wasn’t cowed yet. “So tell me something, Agent Carter. Why did you bother bringing me in, if you don’t care what I have to say?”

She didn’t answer that one.

His voice took on the dangerous slink of a lion about to pounce. “Because I haven’t done _much_ of anything – much of anything except give your precious Captain America a bellyful of ice crystals. You’re still in the dark about that one, aren’t you? Still need me to tell you the solution to that little problem?”

Of course he would think that. Naturally. He was probably counting on it, his one bargaining chip; it was just too bad they had cut that off at the knees. Ivy allowed herself a surreptitious smile. Without the cure, he had nothing at all they wanted. Whatever happened next, it would be on their terms.

Something of her smug satisfaction must have shown on her face, though to be honest she wasn’t trying very hard to hide it. His eyes darkened further, becoming almost black, and he grew too agitated to maintain his lounging position. Shooting to his feet, he stalked up to the window and smacked his palms against the glass, hard. Ivy jumped. She had forgotten the gun. “You think you can make me?” he snarled, face reddened and unrecognizable as his own. “You think I’ll tell you just because you’ve got me in your little cage? You think I care about what happens to me? I _don’t_. Let me tell you a secret, Agent Carter: I may as well be dead already.” The force of his rage was incredible; it rolled out of him like a tsunami, like an inferno. It felt strong enough to melt the glass between them. “You can’t torture me; I won’t feel it. You can’t appeal to my better self; he died a long time ago. You can’t play on my emotions; I don’t have any except hate. There is not a damn thing you can to do get me to talk. I’ll rot in _hell_ first!” He slammed the glass again and swore fluidly in a final torrent, the crude words sizzling. Spittle flecked the window like venom. Finally, he had to stop to suck in a shuddering breath, so furious that even that sounded like a curse.

Before he could start again, Ivy leapt into the void left by his silence. Quickly, she had to cut him off, or he would think that he could cow an agent of SHIELD with mere vitriol, when all he had at his disposal were ugly words and a reputation. Now she could think again, it was clear what she had to say to put an end to this. She raised her eyes to his and looked at him steadily, watching every flicker in his face. “If you’re quite finished,” she said coolly, “you might let me save you some breath. Captain Rogers is well on his way to recovery, so we won’t be needing your help with that.”

A potent pause. Then, “excuse me?” came out as a hiss, forced through the teeth he was baring in a snarl.

Heart pounding, she leaned back in the chair and took a drink. “I think you heard me. Captain Rogers is fine. We don’t need a cure.”

The change was astounding. All the blood drained out of his face, leaving him as pale as when she had met him under the mountain. His eyes died out as well, dark and blank again, and he rocked away from the window before coming back to it again, only the shadow of his former rage present. “You can’t have.”

“We did. He’s getting treatments as we speak.”

“You can’t have,” he said again, more fiercely. “It’s not possible.”

“Perhaps Curic lead you to believe the toxin was more dangerous than it was?” She threw out the name casually, not expecting a response; his brief flash of alarm was a surprise. She gave herself a mental pat on the back and added, “But perhaps you underestimated our resources. Since that’s the way we like it, I won’t blame you.”

Now it was his turn to remain quiet; he hardly looked at her as she got up from the table and came around to stand in front of him. Instead, his eyes darted back and forth in the space above her head, madly searching for another ledge to stand on. There wasn’t one. Steps One and Two were complete, and Ivy didn’t have a Step Three to offer; the Winter Soldier was completely and utterly at their mercy. Ivy almost felt sorry for him. Then the panic in his eyes reminded her of the kidnapped bankers and stockbrokers, Agent Barton’s pale white face, Steve in so much pain he couldn’t sit upright, and any charitable feelings evaporated. Her face set like stone, and she hardly recognized her own voice flowing out of her. “The fact is your “evil plan” is completely destroyed. As is whatever life you’ve had ‘til now. This may be the end of your life, entirely; we just don’t know. That was all I came down here to tell you. To make sure that you are aware of your position – scum of the earth.”

There. That was it. She set her jaw in a plausible imitation of Steve and folded her arms, daring him to respond. But he didn’t. A shade fell over his expression and he looked at her, just looked at her, no sneer, no fire, no mocking grin. Though her face remained carefully steady, Ivy’s mind began to race. Surely it couldn’t be this easy. No Soviet agent – even an assassin, who wasn’t expected to deal with live people – would be this easy to break. But why not? another part of her argued. Even he could see when there was nothing to fight and nothing to gain by doing so. What was the use of fighting with no one to save him and nothing to do if they did? Still, she was wary.

This time, the silence lay like something dead, a cold flabby quiet with no expectation that it would be filled. He didn’t seem like he had anything to say, and Ivy, kicking herself, realized there were no rules for Creating a Good Exit Line When In a Stand-off. But she couldn’t back away. Not even that small gesture, not even when he stood as if stunned. Finally, to her relief, he flinched first, sighing heavily and returning to the cot. She allowed herself to relax, just a smidgen, and felt her hand go tingly with returning blood.

“Scum of the earth, am I?” he asked, rubbing a hand in his hair. A slow smile spread across his face. “Ah, Agent Carter. I already knew that.”

The words could have been biting, but they weren’t. And that smile, she didn’t understand. It looked – rueful, sheepish, pleased even, at least it would have done on anyone else’s face, at any other time. It wasn’t unheard of that he would be glad to be thought of as so evil, but then surely there would have been something else in his expression – cockiness, exultation, the devil-may-care attitude she knew was a hallmark of both Barnes and the Winter Soldier. She cocked her head to one side, eyebrows furrowed. For the first time since she entered the room, she was at a loss.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Both she and the Target jumped slightly, not expecting the noise. It took her a minute to realize where it was coming from. When she did, she hastily made her way to the control panel and muted the sound through to the cell. “Agent Carter here,” she said, “clear for message.”

The Detention receptionist came through. “Agent, I have an urgent message from Chris Miller in IA; would you like to hear it?”

Urgent message? That wasn’t like Chris. Then again, he didn’t know where she was or how long she’d be; no doubt he was just trying to confirm details for the pub. “Yes, please.”

There was a rustling noise, as if he was searching through papers. “Here it is, then. ‘Call Gervis on Secure Line 27 immediately. He has been trying to reach you for an hour. There are new and serious complications re: Ice Cube.’”

Her heart stopped in her chest. She turned her back away from the Target, afraid to let him see what she knew was on her face. “Is there any more to the message?” she asked, hoping beyond hope it wasn’t like it sounded.

“I’m sorry, no.” The receptionist was polite, professional; Ivy felt an irrational desire to shake him until he sounded like a person instead of an automaton. “Do you have a return message?”

“No.” Mind whirring, she braced herself with one hand against the wall and tried to pull a cohesive thought together. “No, thank you, I’ll come up. Tell him – no, I’ll find him. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” The intercom beeped again, and Ivy was left again in the silence. Not, this time, a tense silence or a potent silence or an empty silence, but a silence full of dread and fear. Her blood was pumping and her breath was shallow and she felt, suddenly, very afraid.

“Something wrong, Agent Carter?”

She hadn’t known he could still talk to her when she had muted her sound. Turning, she reached down deep and pulled out a brave face, hitting the intercom button and praying her voice was not as shaky as she thought. “Not at all. Just a reminder of a previous engagement. It’s really been too much fun down here.”

The ruse failed. She could tell as soon as the smile spread across his face, all the malevolence and darkness she had anticipated returned in full-force. “Tell Steve I said hi.”

“Maybe if I see him,” she shot over her shoulder as she left the room, resolutely not looking back. She could still hear his chuckle as the door slid shut behind her.

Damn. It wasn’t over yet.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Steve Faces the Facts

Dark. The room was dark. He was lying on a bed of some kind, not his own; there were no windows and bulky shadows in the corners. Steve blinked, trying to help his eyes adjust, but it took a minute to identify the shadows as medical equipment. With that realization, the last 24 hours flooded back to him in a rush: the flight from the Helicarrier after Gervis’s ecstatic call; the array of needles filled with the solution to melt his condition; resting quietly between treatments; the sudden excruciating pain, followed by a blaring alarm. Gervis and several nurses had rushed in, not even bother to hide their panic, and then – he couldn’t remember what happened. It had been day then, and it was night now, so some time had passed. Try as he might, though, the intervening hours were a blank. Groggily, he tried to leverage himself to a sitting position, bracing himself for the twinge that usually came with this movement. It cut through him like a knife, ten times sharper than he had ever felt it and sending tendrils of pain all the way through his midsection. He fell back, gasping, onto the pillow.

Suddenly, the florescent overheads buzzed on, making him screw up his eyes; the door slid open and a middle-aged nurse in scrubs came up beside him, something flat and rectangular under her arm. “There now, Captain,” she said soothingly. “Better not move.”

No fear there. “What time is it?”

She set the thing – he now recognized it as one of those all-in-one tablets – down on the table beside him. “About 8 o’clock in the evening.”

So he had lost, what, nine hours? He hadn’t passed out for that long, had he? “What” – he tried to lean on his elbow to look at her, but was forced flat again with a grimace – “what happened?

“The doctor will explain when he can.” She was circumspect, not meeting his eyes. “Meanwhile, I was told you need to use that tablet to call Agent Carter. She sent her number.”

“Thanks, I know it.” He didn’t move to pick it up, though, realizing it was past one in the morning in England. His morning would do as well. Anyway, it was more important that he find out what happened, since that was likely what she was calling about. “When is he coming?”

“When he knows what to say,” she answered cryptically, and left.

Steve didn’t know what that meant. Gervis had never, to his knowledge, had a problem saying things; even if he didn’t know what he was talking about he babbled until something approaching sense came out. If he was taking time to think, it suggested whatever had happened was significant. The Target? Could he have escaped, gone on a murderous rampage, got loose on London? Was Ivy - ? He started up, swinging his legs over the side and almost making it to his feet before the knife-edged ache made him stop, gasping. Red swam in front of his vision.

After he lay back down and the haze cleared, he realized he was jumping to wrong conclusions too quickly. Ivy had sent her number, so she was fine. And if she weren’t it was hardly Gervis’s place to tell him about it. Since the doctor was involved, it had to be something with his condition – that only made sense, with the intensified pain. He prodded his side gingerly, relieved to find it felt normal, if cold to the touch. Well then. Maybe there were side effects with the treatment they were still trying to figure out. It did no good to assume the worst, and it was no use to knock himself flat until he knew what was going on. Steve leaned back and tried to keep still, meaning to obey the nurse. It couldn’t be long. 

It was long enough, though – long enough, too long to sit alone with nothing to do but think. Since he got off the plane, there had been too much going on for him to resume his tortuous thought patterns. With the medical technicians, the lab assistants, and Gervis buzzing around during treatments, he hadn’t been able to get a thought in edgewise. In the breaks, he had spoken with Ivy, too giddy with her success to think about what was going to happen next, and he, buoyed along by enthusiasm, had put it out of his mind as well. The cycle had ended, if briefly. Now, staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t put it off anymore.

Now that they had him, what were they going to do with him? Ivy had mentioned questioning, which he mentally translated to _interrogating_. That was only to be expected. You got an asset, you questioned the asset, sucking whatever you could from him to keep more bad things from happening. Steve didn’t like it, but he accepted its necessity. And after that? You could do a lot of things: send him to prison, execute him, send him to prison and then execute him. Or –

But he put that thought firmly out of his head. It wasn’t going to happen, whatever Barton thought. He hadn’t looked into the Target’s eyes and seen the emptiness. He didn’t know what they looked like when there was Bucky behind them. He had talked bravely to Ivy earlier, but Steve knew. Bucky was gone. For good.

Pushing aside the million memories that swelled up as soon as he said it, Steve nodded fiercely. He had to be gone. That was the only way to look at it if he didn’t want to end up crazy, because that was where he was headed if this idiotic circle wasn’t cut off quickly. It wasn’t _Bucky_ in that cell a mile under London. It was a criminal who had killed more people than Steve could imagine, who had kidnapped Ivy and shot Barton and beaten a banker until she couldn’t walk anymore. That man - if he was even a man - deserved whatever was coming to him. Anyway, whatever that was would happen without Steve’s two cents, so it wasn’t even any use worrying about it. Much better that he just forget the whole thing. He was going to be well soon; he could get back to his new life. There was no need to dwell on something long past. He just needed to forget it.

And so he tried, sitting in the dark and scowling until Gervis came in.

The doctor, usually what Steve had once called “out at the seams”, looked even more rumpled and scruffy than usual. The dark circles under his eyes turned into caverns as he scooted the rolling chair to a rest by Steve’s bed. “Well, soldier,” he said, more slowly than Steve had ever heard him, “we have a bit of a SNAFU.”

Steve mentally translated the acronym, shoving aside irritation at the doctor’s euphemism. Just tell him straight; he wasn’t a child. “The treatments didn’t work?”

Gervis shook his head. “Worse than that.”

A cold, hard lump formed in Steve’s stomach. His hand went to his side and he fought to keep his voice even. “Worse how?”

It wasn’t a question and Gervis didn’t take it as one. Sighing, he rubbed a hand through his mousy hair. “We don’t know how. All the tests shrunk it; it didn’t seem to have any side effects on your cellsor hematocytes – blood cells – even when we heated it to your active body temperature. But for some reason it’s having…” he trailed off, grimacing, as if he hoped Steve wouldn’t make him say it. When he didn’t make any sign of understanding, the doctor sighed again. “The opposite effect. It’s having the opposite effect.”

So, much worse then, much worse. He swallowed, imagining the crystals slowly creeping through his veins, seizing up his muscles, blocking up his heart. “Like before? Or faster?”

He hoped, but Gervis’s answer all over his face before he finished the question. “I’m sorry, Captain. We’re looking into every line of research we can.”

“But it doesn’t look good.”

“No.”

He nodded and looked away, blinking quickly. An icy landscape reared up to meet him as the wind whistled past his ears. But that had been different; it had been necessary; it had been for other people. For himself, he would rather live. He rubbed his hands over his face bleakly, trying to get a handle on it and failing miserably. _It’s not fair_ , he thought sharply, only to follow it with the truth drummed into his head as long as he could remember: _life isn’t fair, Steve_. He knew that better than most. All you could do, his mom had always said, was make the best you could with what you had. Even if it killed you. “Well,” he said, turning back to Gervis with what he hoped was a rueful chuckle, “I had about a year more life than I expected, so I can’t complain.”

The doctor didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. His whole attitude was shrunken and regretful, like he was bracing himself to be scolded. Clearing his throat, Steve reached out and clapped Gervis’s shoulder awkwardly. “I know you’re trying. It’s not your fault.”

At that, Gervis’s head snapped up, fire rekindled in his eyes. “Damn right it’s not. We subjected that solution to every test known to science. It should have worked. I’m furious it didn’t. Don’t buy your coffin yet, Rogers; we’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another.” He leapt to his feet and stalked to the end of the bed, grabbing the chart and scrolling through it furiously. “Meanwhile, I’d like to put you under.”

“For how long?” he asked, expecting “while we run some tests” or “overnight for observation”.

Gervis gave him a confused look. “Permanently. At least, until we figure it out or have tried everything. That will slow the process and give us a better chance.”

Asleep for who knows how long? Again? He felt his face harden as the panic shut in. “No.”

“It’s really the best way-”

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It’s not worth it, not now. Not again.”

“That’s what she said you’d say.”

“Who?” But he figured it out fast; there could be only one “she” who would have been consulted. “Agent Carter?”

The doctor pursed his lips. “You don’t have a next-of-kin listed, so she pulled rank and had us bring you out. If it were up to me we would have left you there, but she was very…persistent.”

It didn’t take much for him to imagine the scene hiding behind Gervis’s word choice, and a grin crept to his face despite the topic. “She gave you a rough time?”

“Hell!” Gervis said fervently, “threatened to go all the way to Fury, which no one wants. I thought it would be better to bring you out and make you see reason. Guess that’s not happening either?”

“No.” He shook his head again, levity gone.

The doctor shrugged, putting the chart back to stroll towards the door. “Your funeral.” He stopped with one foot out, a guilty expression covering his face. “But, I mean, I doubt it will come to that.”

Swallowing a lump of dread, Steve waved an airy hand in forgiveness. Gervis, reassured, let the door slide shut behind him, leaving Steve to wish almost immediately that he hadn’t left. The silence in the room pressed in on him, thundering; in the absence of noise he heard the beating of his own heart like a jackhammer. Was it faster than normal? Would it continue to speed up until, overheated, it shut down completely? Or would it slow, the blood trickling through his veins like water in a winter pipe? When would he be paralyzed? Would he retain his faculties until the end? How long did he have before –

The pain shot through again and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through it. Suck in, suck out, suck in, suck out…but the deep breathing led to more pain, this time in his lungs, and he began to gasp, choking, trying desperately to get some air. Without thinking, he sat up and put his arms over his head, breathing through his nose like his mother had taught him. Fit over, he leaned back against the pillow, exhausted. It had been a long time since he had a spell like that – not this century, at least. Lucky for him he hadn’t always been the picture of health; if there was anyone who knew how to get air into protesting lungs, it was an asthmatic with two parents who had coughed themselves to death. The irony was not lost on Steve. How grimly funny would it be, to be cured of his weaknesses and still end up dying from lack of air? Lack of air from a bullet wound, even. He couldn’t escape his fate, he guessed, vaguely remembering the story of a man doomed to die when the log on the fire burned out. Steve had already cheated death once. It would be too much to expect to do it again.

And anyway, he told himself as he stared at the ceiling, death was not the worst thing that could happen. He had never let the fear of it stop him before. Why should this time be any different? It _was_ different, a traitorous part of his mind whispered. He shoved it down fiercely, ignoring the wetness trickling down his cheek. Not _that_ different. It wasn’t like he had been shot by a friend. It was just an enemy, like any other. And he had been hurt rescuing Ivy, which was worth it, so there wasn’t anything to complain about.

The Winter Soldier was not his friend. 

He grit his teeth as he rolled onto his side, shoving the pillow into a more supportive shape. Maybe he should have let Gervis knock him out, even if it was just one night. Then at least he wouldn’t have to think about it. His life icing over, choked to death by a man who had once been his friend. But no, he told himself, not Bucky. Bucky was dead. And maybe, in not very long, Steve would be too.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Is Less Bleak

BEEP-BE-DE-BEEP. BEEP-BE-DE-BEEP.

He rolled back, pointedly ignoring the stab of pain, and eyed the vibrating tablet on the table beside him. He didn’t want to be left alone, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to anyone, either, especially since it was probably Gervis or another doctor. No one else would be calling. Lifting the tablet drearily, he pressed “accept” without reading the notification. “Steve Rogers,” he said, wearily.

“Gervis told me you know.”

Her voice, the last one he expected, nearly made him bolt up. Fortunately, he remembered before he could do anything too painful, and pushed the button to slowly raise the back of the bed. “Ivy? What are you – it must be” he checked his watch out of habit “- two in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She sounded as exhausted as the doctor had looked, though it didn’t seem to have taken a physical toll. “Nor can you, I imagine.”

He watched her lean over to flick on a light; as she did so, her hair fell away from her face, showing clearly the tracks of tears. The warm glow illuminated a plush bedstead, flowered wallpaper, a shelf of shabby books. _Cozy,_ he thought, and _feminine_ , and felt himself flushing. What business did he have in her bedroom?

She settled back into place, clutching a huge mug like it was a lifeline. Tea, again, he figured. “I had to make sure you knew that we haven’t given up.”

“Gervis said that, too.” He tried to shove aside the look on the doctor’s face, but he couldn’t forget the words. _I’m sorry, Captain…_

“I’ve got someone standing over _him_ with an electric shock,” she said grimly, “but that isn’t entirely what I meant. We’ve got other resources now. The Deputy Director has coughed up nicely and we’re pursuing every avenue with a vengeance, Steve, I promise you that.”

For a second he couldn’t think what other avenues they had. Then he remembered, with a sick feeling in his stomach, the Target in a tiny detention cell somewhere below the London streets. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he said. “He should be punished for his crimes, but not because our doctors can’t fix me.”

She didn’t pretend not to understand, but he watched the shutters come down over her eyes. “We’ll do what’s necessary, Captain. You are worth more than any killer.”

“Not more than doing what’s right.”

For a second, something softened; then it was gone, quick as a flash. “And that’s what makes you worth it.” He was about to protest, but she continued without giving him a chance. “Anyway, there’s other paths besides that one – with the extra forces, I’m going after Curic. We needed to take care of him eventually, and he may be able to help us now.”

He mentally scrambled to place the name. “The scientist?”

“Yes. He has to know what it’s made of, even if he doesn’t have a cure; Gervis ought to be able to reverse engineer something from that.”

Hope springs eternal, he thought as he made a non-committal noise. In all likelihood, this Curic would have bolted long ago. “It’s worth a shot, I guess.”

“Whatever it takes, Captain.” She looked at him levelly, confidence in every line of her face. She was absolutely convinced that they would beat this thing. Earlier, he had been able to ride the coattails of her faith, but now…he wanted to believe her, but didn’t know that he could.  

She didn’t seem to want a response, and he didn’t know what else to say. “No, don’t do your job to the best of your ability?” He’d never ask that of anyone. Nor did he want to know more details of the missions she was planning on his behalf. Or talk about how he was feeling. Or how awful the whole thing was. Frankly, he couldn’t think of anything he _did_ want to talk about. The quiet stretched between them, full of things left unsaid. Steve fidgeted, wishing he had a pencil. “So – was there anything else?”

She was surprised; he could hear the liquid sloshing in her mug from her quick movement. “Anything else? Besides the Target and Curic?”

“Anything else you wanted to say? I mean, you waited until two in the morning…”

“No, nothing.” Now she was inscrutable, hiding her face behind her mug. “Only, I wanted to be sure you weren’t alone.”

He looked down quickly. Of course, he should have known – the tea, the marks on her face, the call so soon after Gervis left. If she had wanted to keep him apprised of the situation, she could have sent an email before she went to bed. This was not a check-in from a superior. This was the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a long time. Stupid! he chastised himself, stupid not to see it before.

“Of course, if you’d like to be alone….”

She sounded hesitant, and he realized what it looked like from her end. His head shot up and he spoke urgently, suddenly aware how much he didn’t want her to go. “No! I didn’t know – I thought it was just to tell me – I wasn’t expecting-” Stopping, he tried again. “I don’t want to be alone. Thank you. It…means a lot.”

“I only thought,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “that I would hate to be alone in a SHIELD infirmary all night with something weighing on me like this, after all that’s happened…”

“You were right,” he said fervently. “I don’t. I’m glad you called.”

“It wasn’t like I wasn’t awake myself,” she said.

He cut her off, trying to make her hear. “Why ever it was, I’m glad. I was…” _About to cry_ , was the honest answer. No, that was too much. Smiling ruefully, he attempted to gloss over it. “Your company is much better than my own thoughts.”

When she finally looked at him, he wished she hadn’t. Her confidence, which he had thought her permanent expression, was gone, and the depth of emotions flickering across her face almost drowned him: grief, worry, exhaustion. They were more than he could handle right now. More than she wanted him to see, he had no doubt, because all she said was, “You might try acting like it.”

Yes, she was right. “You know I’m not very good at this.”

“It’s not a talking-to-women thing, Steve; it’s a being-a-thoughtful-person thing, which you’ve got in spades.” She hesitated, glancing down into her lap before speaking again. “I was worried about you.”

Yes, she had been, and he felt like a complete fool. “I’m as well as can be expected.” So, pretty rotten. Her eyes were sympathetic as she took another long gulp. He had to change the subject before she finished swallowing, or no doubt the conversation would go somewhere he’d rather not discuss. “What are you drinking?”

“Herbal tea.” Another drink. “I was told growing up that tea diminishes all problems – thought I’d give it a try.”

“Peggy never told you that,” he said, surprising himself.

“No, on my mum’s side. They didn’t live in London, and he wasn’t fit for military service.”

“Soldiers would know better”, he heard her explaining in the subtext, maybe even “soldiers should know better.” He did and she did; it took more than flavored water to fix a lot of things. Still, he couldn’t blame her for trying. “Is it working?”

“Unfortunately not. It is warming me up, though, so that’s something.” She took a heavy breath. “I seem to have been cold all day.”

The deep cold that came with dread was familiar; he had his own symptoms even now. November chill had nothing on it. “I know the feeling.”

“You should have them make you some. But don’t let them use those awful cheap bags they have on the Helicarrier. Send someone out for something proper.”

“I’m pretty sure they have better things to do with their time.”

“Not one lackey in SHIELD-A?  You don’t mean we have something over the mighty mothership?” Trying to match his forced cheerfulness, she only sounded more pathetic. Still, anything to get them out of the dumps. He reached down and pulled out a teasing tone, hoping it could turn the conversation around.

“If I remember right, you had an assistant and you still had to get your own coffee. I wouldn’t get too bigheaded.”

“Yes, but Chris was only to help me with a specific project. There were people I could have sent, but-” one side of her mouth quirked up “-I didn’t have the guts.”

The first time he had laid eyes on her, Steve had known she had guts to the tenth degree, bolstered by courage from down in her soul, and she hadn’t let him down since. Tonight, though, he saw how it could have been different for her. “That’s not true anymore,” he said. “Gervis told me you threatened to go to Fury.”

That tugged the other side up as well. “I wouldn’t have, really, though I was prepared to go to the Head of Infirmaries and remind them of a patient’s rights.” The smile reached her eyes; he was glad to see it and answered with one of his own. “You should have seen him, Steve. It was brilliant – the only time I remember laughing all day.”

He cast his mind back. “I think – didn’t we laugh at something this morning? The first time we talked.” Not at something, but out of sheer pleasure, relief that they had come through in one piece, that things were going to be fine. The smile left his face as quickly as it had come. He didn’t want to remember that feeling. It was a joke, now.

“Lord, was that only this morning?” She ran a hand through her hair. The dark cascade distracted him briefly; it couldn’t possibly be as shiny as it looked, could it? Like obsidian. “I suppose we did. But that was before.”

A watershed moment, he thought, strong enough to wipe out everything before like it had never existed. Was it only yesterday that he and Barton had argued over soufflés in the Helicarrier kitchen? He swallowed hard and spoke lightly. “For me it almost was another day. They had me under for nine hours.”

“Lucky you.” The mug was replaced on the beside table with a weighty _thud_. “I had to coordinate a two-front strategy with no time to prepare, over agents who have decades more experience, with the Deputy Director breathing down my neck. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep because my mind won’t shut off; it just keeps going over and over the orders I gave, wondering if they’re right. I _wish_ someone would drug me for a long time. Then I could wake up and have it be _over_.” Her voice cracked, and she wiped her eyes angrily. “I thought we were done, Steve. And now it’s a thousand times worse. Doesn’t it ever get any easier?”

He didn’t know what to say. It would be nice if it was true, but past experience suggested it only got easier once you died. Stop fighting overgrown bullies at home, start fighting crazy Nazi bullies overseas. Leave the Great Depression, enter World War II. “I don’t know,” he said miserably, knowing it was wholly inadequate.

“Because if it doesn’t, how do you keep going? If all your plans and efforts are worthless, doesn’t it just make you want to give up?”

The despair in her voice was enough to choke her, and she wiped away another tear, a few hairs sticking to her face. _Oh God_ , he thought, not irreverently, _how can I give her an answer when I don’t know it myself?_ No other way than honesty, speaking out of his experience. Anything else would be patronizing and fake; she would see right through it. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Yeah, I feel like that.”

She peered out from behind the dark curtain. “You, Steve?”

Holding out both hands, palms up, he gave a half smile. “I’m still a person, Ivy. It happens.”

“I didn’t think you ever quit.”

Sneaking out of his sickbed to get his work into a show at school, the five recruitment offices, stealing that plane with Howard and Peggy…no, he had never been a quitter. He shrugged, but chose his next words carefully. “Wanting to isn’t the same as doing it. I figure, if you quit things will never change.”

“They aren’t changing anyway.”

“Except that the Target is in custody, and he wasn’t before.”

“But what does that bloody matter, if we can’t save _you_?”

And then, to his dismay, she burst into tears, heavy racking sobs he had no idea how to handle. Her whole body shook; she hardly seemed to breathe; the tears streamed down her face in a river. If he had thought he was encroaching on her privacy before, he was breaking and entering into it now. “Shh, shh,” he said, squirming uncomfortably. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” she gasped, “it’s not.”

“It will be,” he promised.

Even in the state she was in, she knew better. “You – can’t – say that. Don’t – try.”

Of course he couldn’t, but what else was there to say? And if he couldn’t say anything, what else was there to do? He couldn’t fight it, couldn’t strategize a way out of it, couldn’t even pat her head comfortingly, as his mother had done for him. Helpless, that was all. He wasn’t used to this feeling, anymore.

Eventually she took a long, shuddering breath and stopped, wiping her eyes with a corner of her quilt. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, no,” he murmured.

“We don’t really do that in front of people.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said, hoping to tease a smile out of her.

She turned up the corners of her mouth obligingly, but sighed and collapsed back against the headboard. “It’s nearly three am, and I’ve been awake for hours, and this day has been simply bonkers. I’m overwrought.”

“I understand.”

“Only that’s why-”

For the second time that night, he cut her off, suddenly fiercely determined she would not justify herself to him again. There had been enough of that between them. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. If you want to cry, then – then that’s fine.”

“I really don’t.” Her face was red and puffy, but she laughed shortly. “Crying never solved anything, and that’s really what I want, to solve this thing. Only there’s really nothing I can do to help you. And I’m sorry.”

He frowned, taken aback. Nothing? When she had spent all day in meetings she didn’t feel equipped for, had stayed up all night to talk to him in case he needed company? Had never, until this very minute, let him see the despair she was obviously feeling? She had nothing to be sorry for. He should be sorry, for leaving her to bear all the burdens. “Um, you don’t have – there’s nothing to-” he really should be better at this by now – “when things like this happen…” he cleared his throat, still not letting the word _dying_ take shape in his mind, “…all you can do is whatever you can.”

“It might not be enough, Steve.”

He took a deep breath, the shooting pain proof he couldn’t ignore. It might not, she was right. But did he want that to make her stop trying? Did he want…was it going to make him stop trying?

“Steve?”

He looked up, realizing he had fallen into a brown study. Concern was spread across her still blotchy and exhausted face. “So what if it’s not?”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Pardon me?”

“What if all we can do isn’t enough to stop this from killing me? Then it’s not. But in the meantime, if we don’t try...”

Understanding dawned in her features. “You’re saying we can’t give in, because that’s what will beat us.”

Nodding, he shifted in the bed, drawing his knees up towards his chest. “We have to keep fighting, Ivy. Maybe we’ll win, maybe we won’t, but we can’t act like we’ve already lost.” Suddenly, he remembered a speech he had read about, drawn to the words by the memory of a man he had once met. “Never, never, never give up.”

She smiled then, a real one, if it was still kind of soggy. “Shouldn’t I be quoting Churchill?”

“Considering I’m the one that met him,” he said, “it seems appropriate.”

“Have it your way, then.” She sighed again, twisting a finger around a curl in what he, without noticing it, had realized was a thinking gesture. “So I’ll keep after the Target and Curic. All we can do is try, yes?”

“Yes,” he said, mind already on the question he knew she would ask next.

He was not disappointed. “And you, Steve? What will you do?”

“Go to treatments, of course,” he said, considering. “And…I think I’ll give Tony Stark a call.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Is Tonally All Over the Place

Getting hold of Tony Stark proved to be more complicated than Steve had anticipated. At some point in the last six months, he had lost the business card Stark pressed into his hand as they left the schwarma place; pity, as he had vague memory that a direct number had been scribbled on it somewhere. Calling Stark Industries resulted in a robotic recording. He tried asking at the Tower, but the receptionist “was unable to disclose Mr. Stark’s whereabouts at this time.” Whether that meant she couldn’t tell him, or she didn’t know, Steve wasn’t sure. In a last ditch attempt, he left a message with the first live person he spoke to, hoping it would work its way up somehow.

With the rest of his time, he was usually in an Infirmary at Base. Gervis and his team, looking vaguely raccoon-ish, were pumping him full of God-knew-what, trying desperately to counter the slow creep of the ice. There were pills. There were shots. There were sessions under the radiation machine. There was a thick black drink like tar. And, most humiliatingly, there was the wheelchair he had to be toted around in from room to room, for all the world like an invalid.

“Do you actually have to?” Ivy asked during one of their almost nightly chats.

He shook his head, twirling chow mein noodles around his fork. “I could refuse, but Gervis would have a fit. He’s already so anxious. It’s not worth making a fuss about.”

She delicately dunked a cookie in her tea and tapped it twice against the mug. “Aren’t you ever going to put your foot down?”

“They wanted to give me a live-in nurse.” That had been a good fight, which Steve had won by sheer bull-headedness. “Not interested in a baby-sitter.”

Ivy watched him stuff the noodles in his mouth, crinkling her nose. “If she could get you to eat something besides takeaway…”

When his mouth was free again, he protested. “That tar shake I’m drinking will more that make up for it. Cut me some slack.”

“Oh, _I_ don’t care.” One eyebrow raised in a perfect arch. “Only I want you to consider this: what will Director Fury say if aliens invade again and you’re too fat to fit in your suit?” 

Since that first night, she had steadfastly refused to discuss any other outcome than success. From Gervis, Steve knew she hadn’t forgotten the alternative; the doctor was under strict orders to send daily updates on Steve’s condition. To him, though, she spoke like his recovery was a given. Steve appreciated it, but couldn’t help feeling it was a little like an ostrich sticking his head in the sand. There was no denying that he was getting worse. The pain, coupled with the exhaustion from the treatments, kept him from doing much more than dragging to HQ and coming back again to flop on the couch. He hadn’t been to the Children’s Hospitals all week. But there was only so much you could do when it hurt to walk, to sit, to breathe. No more trips to the library or runs around the block. No more long drives on the motorcycle. No more drawing, because there was nothing new to think about. All he could do was sit, like a lump, and watch television. The longer it went, the more he thought he was likely to die of boredom.

* * *

 

Ivy, meanwhile, would have committed a serious crime for even an hour of boredom. After hanging up with Gervis, she had hit the ground running and not let up since. Perhaps getting wind of the Winter Soldier’s capture, Curic had hurriedly abandoned his hidey-hole in Moldova, leaving behind enough explosives to blow up Luxembourg but no clue as to where he might have gone. So it was a manhunt, again. She wondered bleakly what she had done to deserve another one so soon.

This one, too, was infinitely more complicated. In addition to Chris, she had been allotted three extra Information Analysts to comb through the information coming in from all over the continent, as well as the ability to pull agents from any of SHIELD’s bases when fieldwork was required. Keeping charge of that many people without repeating tasks or forgetting information was proving to be difficult. Especially because she was being asked to deal with more than one problem at a time: in addition to the massive manhunt, she also had the Winter Soldier in a cell downstairs. The combined efforts of Master Interrogators Sloane and Patel had, as yet, gotten no results worth having. The Target sat stubbornly in his cell, not moving except to pace, not speaking except to curse. He hadn’t eaten in weeks and was drinking less than would keep a dog alive. 

“You’re not letting me do my job,” Patel said after one morning briefing in Ivy’s office.

Ivy looked up quickly, surprised. The other agent crossed her arms in front of her, dark eyes impassive. “The subject is intractable. We could question him for a year with nothing more to show for it.”

“I don’t know what you expected.” She didn’t need to tell Patel what Soviet agents were like; the interrogator had been with SHIELD since the 8os.

Patel acknowledged her comment with a clipped nod. “But we were willing to try it, as per your directions. It’s not working. We need to move to the next level.”

A sick feeling appeared in Ivy’s stomach. She had known it would come to this, if she couldn’t get results, but she hadn’t expected it quite so quickly. “It’s only been a few weeks. Haven’t we got more time?”

“How much time does Captain Rogers have?” Patel looked significantly at Ivy’s desk, where x-rays of Steve’s side rested atop yesterday’s medical report.

Quickly shuffling the pile on her desk, Ivy tried to respond confidently. “Enough.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

No, she couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t want to go straight to torture, either, not when there were other avenues to explore. They were managing the spread, Gervis reported; if Steve would slow down they could get it more or less under control. It wasn’t desperate, not yet. “Captain Rogers would be the first to say to wait.”

Patel pursed her lips. “All due respect, but I’m not sure we should take our cue from a man who was born when they still called it the Great War.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with it,” Ivy said briskly, examining some papers to avoid Patel’s disapproving stare. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, but these are not yet desperate times.” The _yet_ , she thought, hung in the air uneasily.

* * *

About a week later, Steve was sitting in the dark, flipping through channels in search of something that wasn’t incomprehensible or inappropriate when his cell phone rang. Startled, he glanced at the clock – too early for Ivy, but too late for Gervis. He pressed _accept_ and answered formally, figuring it for a wrong number.

Instead, the voice at the other end was female, unfamiliar, warm. “Hello, Captain Rogers, this is Pepper Potts. I understand you were trying to get in touch with me?”

He stammered “yes,” mentally scrambling to match the voice with the pictures he had seen in _Fortune_ and _The Economist_. It was easier than he expected, realizing anyone who would put up with Tony Stark would have to be pretty good-natured. “Yes,” he said again, “but I didn’t actually mean for you to call me. I just wanted Stark’s telephone number.”

“Oh well,” she laughed, “receptionists live in fear of Tony, so the buck was passed all the way up. If that’s all, I can give it to you now.”

Quickly scribbling the number on a corner of a pad, he repeated it back and thanked her for her time.

“My pleasure,” she said in a tone that left no doubt that it was, “I’ve been trying to figure out a way we could meet. I’m glad we had an excuse.”

“Is he in New York now?”

“No.” There was a sudden darkness in her voice that took him aback. “No, he’s at home in Malibu. He hasn’t been here for a few months.”

Steve was surprised at the disappointment that welled up; he hadn’t realized how much he had been looking forward to seeing the obnoxious son-of-a-gun. “I thought he was working on the Expo.”

“Oh.” She laughed again, this time humorlessly. “No, a skilled team of publicists and PAs are working on it, overseen by yours truly. I would kill to have Natasha back, but I understand she’s busy.”

Steve knew that was unlikely to be the same Natasha he knew, but found both the image and the pun amusing. “Maybe I talk to you, then. A few months ago Stark asked if I’d open it with him.” Leaving it intentionally open, he hoped she’d fill in the blank but received only an interrogative “hmm?” He took it as encouragement. “I still don’t want to put on the suit and be a mascot, but I’d like to help if I can. If there’s anything.” He looked around the barren apartment, suddenly aware how empty it was. “Anything at all.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected her to say, but it wasn’t the response he got. “Fantastic!” she said cheerily, without missing a beat, “we’d love to have you. You’re a New Yorker, right?”

“From Brooklyn,” he said, not sure what that had to do with anything.

“Super. I’m here for some meetings. Can you do lunch tomorrow?”

Tomorrow he had planned to skip lunch and take a nap before visiting hours at the Children’s Hospital, but he instantly decided against it. He was not an invalid – not yet. “Sure. Is there someplace-”

She cut him off briskly. “I can’t go too far from the Tower or my people get nervous. There’s a little café down here – I can’t remember what it’s called – the waitresses wear puffed sleeves-”

“I know the one,” he said, familiar with that café in both its whole and wrecked states. “I’ll be at Base until one. Is that too late?”

“One-thirty,” she answered obliquely, “I’m writing it in. I’ll see you then, Captain Rogers.”

“See you then.”

* * *

When Steve told Ivy that, while she was hunched over a computer straining her eyes to decipher fuzzy footage from Belarus, he had been having a three-hour lunch with Pepper Potts, she had a hard time believing it. Forgoing indignation at the sheer unfairness, though she was sorely tempted, she simply couldn’t picture such a thing. “But what did you _talk_ about all that time?” she asked, deftly braiding her hair and trying to imagine it.

“Art, mostly.” He shrugged, not looking up from the sketch pad he had propped on his knee. “She – um – minored in it? Is that what you call it when you study something on the side?”

She returned the shrug, flinging her now completed braid over her shoulder. “Honestly, our educational systems are so different I haven’t the foggiest idea. I thought you were going to talk about the Expo – didn’t you mention it at all?”

He looked up at the ceiling, forehead creased. From that angle, the dark circles under his eyes stood out even more sharply. “Just at the beginning. She said she’d have to get back to me.”

“Are you all right with that?” Over the past few weeks, she had seen Steve grow increasingly more agitated at his forced inactivity and seclusion. He was obviously a man who needed to be _doing_ something; the Expo would have provided a good outlet. She didn’t like to think about what putting it off would do for his mental state.

Surprisingly, he nodded slowly. “I think so. I felt good after the lunch, better than I do when I just come home. I had enough energy to go to one of the hospitals afterwards. Maybe the reason I’ve been feeling so bad is because I’m not doing anything to keep me from thinking of myself.”

Only Steve, she thought bemusedly. “You haven’t been in a while, have you?”

He nodded again. “I used to get to three or four in a week, before-” He stopped and pursed his lips, tracing a line a second and third time. _Before Greenland_ , she filled in as he continued. “One or two should be possible.”

“Absolutely,” she said, noting the way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. He hadn’t looked that healthy in a long time. Even so, it was only a shadow of what he had been when they first met in the mountain. With a pang, she remembered Gervis’s recommendation in the morning report; _please_ , he had almost begged, _get him to slow down._ She couldn’t do that, not when he did look better today. Not when he was drawing for the first time since the Helicarrier. “But please promise me you won’t kill yourself before we find the cure.”

“That isn’t the plan.”

She sighed. “Things happen outside our plans, Steve.” Just that morning, for example – they had got a good, strong lead on Curic; she dispatched a team; the Quinjet had an engine malfunction and by the time they got there, Curic had moved on. The cache of biological weapons they had recovered instead was little consolation. Relieving that frustration, it took Ivy a minute to notice Steve’s reproachful expression.

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry.” Would they ever stop apologizing to each other? She sighed again, suddenly tired. “I have it on my mind.”

“I understand.” He held his pad up to the light and frowned at it, snatching up an art rubber from the table beside him. “Even when you’re responsible for everything, it doesn’t always come out like you want.”

“Case in point?” she asked, watching him furiously rub out what appeared to be a decent area of the drawing. Brushing the scuzz off, he gave her a distracted smile.

“Kind of. But I think it turned into something better. It’s not the way it looks in real life, but art can take liberties.” Flipping the pad around for her to see, Steve pointed to the wall of windows in the middle of the drawing. Between the privacy curtains and medical equipment, the scaffolding-surrounded Stark Tower was visible in the distance. “You can’t actually see it from the floors because of the height of the building, but they seem connected to me – these really sick kids and the patched-up Tower.”

Her eyes lingered on the lone figure: a young boy sketched in profile, hopeful determination in every line on his face as he gazed out the windows. “Because they’re both fighting.”

“Yes,” he said, obviously pleased that she had understood.

But how could she not? She knew that expression well – she saw it every night on her computer screen and every morning in the mirror. “It’s brilliant, Steve.” She cleared her throat and tried again, stronger this time. “Properly good, I mean it.”

“It’s okay.” He tossed the pad on the couch next to him, eyes never leaving hers. She couldn’t look away either, as the next words were weighted by his gaze. “It’s enough for right now.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Ivy Almost Never Finishes a Sentence

“I’d like you to organize the Expo,” Pepper Potts said when she called two days later.

“What?” He was too dumbfounded to put together a polite sentence.

“At least, to organize the staff and oversee the details. They need a guiding hand. I think you could do it, Captain.”

For half-a-second, all the blood in his body stirred. A great campaign to help the city he loved the only way he could anymore – it sounded perfect. And then a half-a-second later, the now familiar pain followed. He sucked in a regretful breath. “I don’t think I can.”

“You don’t think you can, or you don’t want to?”

He winced a little. “Can’t. I wish I could.”

“So why not?”

He hadn’t meant to tell her, but suddenly it all came pouring out: the Winter Soldier, his condition, the treatments. “After the treatments, I can hardly move,” he wound up, not liking the pleading tone in his voice. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I couldn’t be as available as you would need.”

“So come stay here,” she responded instantly. “It’s closer to SHIELD headquarters and the children’s hospitals and it would be no trouble. There’s a whole floor here with your name on it.”

“Stay there for six months?” he asked, incredulous.

“Or until you’re feeling better.” He didn’t respond right away, thinking. After a minute she tried again, wheedling. “You’d _really_ be doing me a favor.” 

Steve held out for ten more minutes by changing the subject, but before they hung up he had agreed – to the Expo, at least; jury was still out on moving into Stark Tower.

* * *

 

Sloane and Patel had told her, in no uncertain terms, that her inexperience was affecting her ability to do the job well. Ivy knew they meant this as it applied to her reluctance to consider torture, but she was determined that the criticism not be leveled at her from any other quarter. To that end, she was protecting all fronts. Two of her ICs were tracking down all known associates of Curic; Chris was in constant communication with their base heads throughout Europe and the Middle East; she, Ivy, had used Aunt Peg’s address book to contact anyone who might have knowledge of the Curic workshop that hadn’t made it into reports. Retired operatives, she found, tended to be curmudgeons. All of them together, though, were not as nerve-wracking as the call she had to make next.

Ivy paused, one hand on the phone, and took a deep breath, remembering Steve’s words of the night before.

“She’s just a person, Ivy,” he said, laughing at her. “She puts her pants on one leg at a time.”

Ivy had fought to stifle a giggle, despite her sneaking suspicion that even Steve’s version of pants would bow to the whims of Natasha Romanoff. “I’ll try and remember,” she promised, and she muttered it to herself now as the call connected. “One leg at a time, one leg at a time.”

“Hello, Agent.” Agent Romanoff’s voice was cool and collected, as always. “Finally got to my name on the list? Was it alphabetical or…”

“Length of time with SHIELD,” Ivy responded, instantly making a face at her reflection in the computer screen. What kind of comment was that?

Fortunately, Agent Romanoff seemed more amused than anything else. “It’s an odd one that an agent who’s been on the payroll for thirteen years is considered the rookie, but there’s nothing particularly normal about this case. I assume you are looking for information about Curic?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None, but I doubt I’ll be able to tell you anything you haven’t already heard.”

And, indeed, Agent Romanoff was obviously very thorough in her reports. Everything she mentioned Ivy had already read in the records of the first takedown, shortly after the Black Widow’s defection. “And there was no indication that there had been a change in leadership?” she asked as the other agent drew to a close.

“No. Anything face-to-face was done by lackeys. They didn’t get to any of them before their cyanide capsules kicked in.”

Ivy sighed, drawing a line through the last name on her list. “Unfortunate. Curic Jr. obviously had a hiding place no one knew about, and he’s kept it secret. None of his current clients know anything about location.”

“Then you just haven’t found the right one yet.”

Five stings, seven undercover missions, and three huge favours called in, and they “just haven’t found the right one.” By a miracle, Ivy managed not to snort. “I suppose not. We’ll keep looking.”

“Such is the job.” There was a brief pause, in which Ivy mentally saw the other agent brushing dust off her hands. In the background of the call, a man murmured a question. Romanoff responded in Russian, her own voice muffled. “Sorry, she said, voice clear again, “was there anything else?”

“Actually, yes.” Ivy took another deep breath and silently repeated her mantra. “I wanted to ask you about the Winter Soldier.”

The silence on the other end was deafening. Desperately, she muddled on. “Only you’re the only one to know what he’s like now and my interrogators aren’t having very good results. We thought you might be able to give us something-”

“There’s nothing.”

Romanoff’s tone was brittle and closed, a “no thoroughfare” sign if Ivy ever heard one. She pressed in, regardless; Steve couldn’t wait for pussy-footing. “Nothing you haven’t already said? Because we’re looking for any chink-”

“There are no chinks. There’s nothing to use against him.” The man’s voice came again, sounding concerned though she couldn’t make out the words. Agent Romanoff spat something back, not, Ivy thought, in Russian this time. There was another pause before she spoke again, calmer now. “The only thing might be physical pain. Even that, I don’t know – it would have to be with severe prejudice. They made us pretty hardy.”

That _couldn’t_ be true. All people, somewhere, had a weakness, no matter how hard or corrupted. Agent Romanoff was proof of that, wasn’t she? It was just a matter of _finding_ it and turning it around. But nobody knew the Winter Soldier’s weakness, that was the problem, they had nothing to go on, so they couldn’t formulate the opposite… She buried her hands in her hair, thinking furiously.

“Agent Carter?”

Agent Romanoff’s frigid tone snapped her back into focus. “Beg pardon.”

“No problem,” the other agent said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “Is that all?”

Ivy didn’t want it to be, but she could hear the doors slamming shut around her. “If you really can’t think of anything else.”

“ ‘Fraid not. It sounds like you’re doing everything you can.”

And getting _nowhere_ , Ivy thought heatedly, with no hope of getting anywhere because apparently even torture wouldn’t work. How encouraging. “Thank you for your time, Agent Romanoff.”

“Good luck,” she said, and rung off briskly.

Ivy slammed the receiver down and glared at it, muttering impolite words under her breath. Well, what now? A face-trace? Assuming they could access the equipment, which was by no means a given, they didn’t have a good enough recent image to guarantee success. They were tracking and sorting through hundreds of tags and tips already; adding a few more wouldn’t do any good. She knew what Sloane and Patel would say, but Agent Romanoff had thrown water on _that_ theory…if he didn’t have a weakness, what did it matter?

Weakness…she considered that idea again, propping her chin in her hands. Everybody had a weakness, somewhere. Despite what Agent Romanoff said, the Winter Soldier was driven by something, so he must have something he cared about. If they could just find what that was…

She sighed heavily, recognising the old familiar rounds. Yes, that would solve everything, wouldn’t it? How nice it would be to have all the answers handed to you on a platter. Perhaps if she just went down there and asked politely, he’d oblige. “Why yes, Agent Carter, I’m doing all this because-”

Hold on. There was something – she sat up ramrod straight, eyes flying to the case wall. In Greenland, what had he told Steve? Steve had said…“what are you doing this for?” or something like that…and then the Winter Soldier had said…why couldn’t she remember? She hadn’t been paying close enough attention at the time and hadn’t thought about it since. Where was that bloody transcript? With shaking hands, she scattered the papers on her desk, hunting madly. It had to be there somewhere. There, there it was!

She seized it triumphantly, scanning the first page for the exchange she was half-remembering. Not there. Just as she flipped to the second, her phone rang.

“Hello?” she said, half her attention still on the document. “Chris, yes? I’m on the verge-”

His words suddenly caught up to her brain and she stopped short, the transcript falling back to her desk. “Once more, Chris?”

“Absolutely confirmed,” her assistant said. “The base in Georgia captured a target and found out through their questioning that there’s going to be a major arms deal with Curic tomorrow. It’s in Belarus. We can get him, Agent.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Includes Jarvis and Gervis

Ivy pushed herself back from her desk and let out a slow breath. Across from her, Chris stood, tucking the mission specs under his arm. “That’s quite clear, ma’am,” he said briskly. “We’ll interface with the base at Hrodna to get a decoy in place. The air surveillance will have to be supported from a bigger site, but we should be able to get enough tails locally.”

“That’s fine, agent. However you need to work out the details.” She glanced at her desk calendar, though the blank week between now and C-Day had burned itself into her brain. “I’ll need everything sorted by Tuesday, though. We don’t want to cut it too close.”

“No ma’am.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw him shift from one foot to the other. “Something on your mind, agent?”

He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. “I just wanted to say that this seems like the most solid plan you’ve put together and I think it has a strong chance of success.” Clearing his throat awkwardly, he nodded once before clasping his hands behind him with an expectant air.

She stared, not quite sure how to respond. On the one hand, a warm ooze was spreading through her mid-section, since Chris was almost a perfect robot when it came to behavior – it wasn’t like him to offer a compliment for no reason. On the other, even a “strong chance of success” felt a little too much like tempting fate. “Well, thank you,” she said finally. “But let’s not count our chickens just yet, mm?”

“Of course not, ma’am.”

After Chris left the room, Ivy wished he hadn’t gone. With the plan in place and being set in motion by other hands, the week stretched ahead of her long and empty. At the end of it they would find Curic and save Steve, touch wood, but in the meantime… She got to her feet and began to pace, restless. In the meantime, she had to stay calm, not over-think it, keep it a secret from Steve, and above all not get complacent. Something dreadful could still happen. Nothing was settled yet.

* * *

 

Steve dropped his duffle on the floor of his new digs and had to consciously keep his jaw from following. Instead, he let out a slow whistle as he turned around slowly. “When Miss Potts said there was a floor with my name on it, I didn’t think she meant it literally.” He eyed the giant case on the wall, which held a replica – he assumed it was a replica – of his shield. “Well, almost literally.”

The receptionist had sent him up in a private elevator, and he had thought he was alone on the floor. So he about jumped out of his skin when, from out of nowhere, a calm English voice answered.

“Mr. Stark began work on these floors as part of the reconstruction of the Tower. Yours has been completed for several months, sir.”

“Several months?” Steve echoed, scanning the floor. It was open and sleek, almost utilitarian; there weren’t a lot of places to hide. But he didn’t see anybody anywhere.

“Yes, sir.” The voice, wherever it was coming from, sounded apologetic. “As Dr. Banner was living here, it was expedient that we finish his floor first.”

“Does his have invisible men haunting it too, or is that special for me?”

“I’m not invisible, sir. I don’t have a body. My name is Jarvis.”

Now he heard the name, he remembered hearing the voice before. He hadn’t realized Stark had the system everywhere. If he had guessed, he would have thought it followed Stark around like a tail. “My doctor is named Jarvis,” he said, running a hand along the smooth stone countertop that stretched along one end of the room. Following it to a corner, he was surprised to find a drafting table set up under two big windows.

“That would be Doctor Gervis,” the system corrected politely.

He looked up from his perusal of the selection of drawing pencils in a drawer. “You know him?”

“We have been in contact regarding your condition. Merely so I can monitor your biological statistics during your time here.”

A talking computer watching him every second? “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Very well, sir. It was at Ms. Potts’s suggestion, but I can inform her otherwise.”

He shut the drawer sharply. Better clear it up himself; the last thing he wanted was to be treated like an invalid. “Is Miss Potts here?”

“She has returned to Malibu. However, she did direct me to say that she left everything you will need on the table.”

It took him a minute to find the table; another minute, even with Jarvis’ helpful directions, to figure out the electronic thing; a while after that to sort through all pertinent information. Before he realized, it was dark outside and his stomach was rumbling. He shook his head and stretched, rubbing at a kink in his neck. “Wonder where I can get something to eat." 

“I’ll order up for you, sir,” Jarvis said, once again startling him. “Do you prefer pizza or pho?”

* * *

 

The next day, Steve got down to work. The elevator took him straight down to the office where ten or twelve office workers wasted no time in bringing no less than sixteen major problems that had to be dealt with _immediately_. After lunch, they had an all-office strategy meeting that would have stretched until dinner if Jarvis had not interrupted to remind Steve of his “previous engagement” with Gervis. Then it was treatment, hospital, dinner, and bed, as Steve tried desperately to ignore the pain creeping through his chest.

The pain was still there the next morning. He popped one of the pills Gervis gave him and did it all over again.

“Is this what it’s like for you?” he asked Ivy during their chat that night, the first in nearly a week.

She looked at him through dark-rimmed eyes. “Yes,” she said, “it’s Hell, isn’t it?”

Steve wouldn’t go quite that far. He was tired, yes, and the pain was getting worse, and at times he noticed himself tripping or dropping things clumsily, but for the first time in a long time he was busy and useful. That went a long way.

The next morning getting out of bed was even harder; he had to sit on the edge of the bed for fifteen minutes to gather himself before dragging to the closet. No suit today – no one in the office wore them, and he didn’t have the energy to put it on. Maybe just the vest, though. Men did that now, right? Thank goodness everything in his closet matched. He pulled out his comfortable khakis, a striped shirt, the vest, letting the suit coat drop to the floor unheeded. He managed to get his pants on before he had to sit and catch his breath. The shirt proved its own problem as his fingers fumbled with the buttons. He left the vest hanging open and slowly made his way to the kitchen table, where he pillowed his head on his arms and breathed heavily. Every breath drove a spike through his lungs.

“Jarvis?” he said when he could muster up enough air. “I don’t suppose you could call something to get my schedule for the day?”

“That won’t be necessary, sir; I have all the records on file.” He read off three meetings for the Expo, the visiting hours at the children’s hospitals, and the afternoon appointment with Gervis. “But if you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir, your pulse is elevated to what has been deemed unhealthy levels. If you like I can move up your appointment with your doctor.”

He pulled himself painfully to his feet and hobbled to the elevator. “What did I tell you about monitoring me? We’ll keep it when it is.”

Despite his best efforts, it was a struggle to make it through his meetings, and he excused himself entirely from office lunch to take a rest before going to SHIELD. Even so, he was so shaky when he got up that he consented to call a cab, rather than walking to the nearest taxi stand as he usually did. For the first time, he was glad to collapse into the wheelchair that met him at the door.

The orderly sent to push him shook his head. “The doctor is not going to be happy with you.”

He wasn’t.

“Damn it, Captain, I’ve been telling you for weeks you’ve got to slow down. All this activity is making it _exponentially_ worse. Do you _want_ to drive yourself into an early grave?” Steve assumed the question was rhetorical and stayed silent while Gervis stomped over to the x-ray screen. “Do you see this?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at a white blob. “This is nearly solid ice! Some of your capillaries are entirely closed off! We’re fighting internal frostbite here and you don’t seem to give a damn!”

Steve felt a cold lump – a different one – appear in his stomach. He looked at the line of x-rays on the wall: his side, his hands, his chest. In the last one, icy tentacles reached out for his heart. “I’ll slow down,” he said, meaning it.

“It’s too late for that.” The doctor flopped down in a chair, scowling. “Captain, it’s very quickly coming to the point where you won’t be physically able to get enough oxygen in your lungs, because there’s no place for it to go. There’s nothing we can do now to fight that fast enough.” Leaning forward, Gervis, caught Steve’s gaze and held it, speaking firmly. “Steve, you have to let us put you under.”

He jerked back involuntarily, clenching his jaw. There it was again – that terrifying suggestion that might save his life but would probably kill him as well. How could he do that? How could he say yes?

When he didn’t respond, Gervis tried again, more gently. “Captain? What are you thinking?”

What was he thinking? He wasn’t sure yet. It was hard to think around the voice in his head screaming “no! no! no!” _But you want to live_ , he told himself. But at what cost? The cost of another 50 years, of having to start all over again? Was his life really worth that?

Of course, it might not be that long, the reasonable voice reminded him. If Ivy was successful, if she found the cure, they could pull him out soon. But in that case, couldn’t he just wait it out? He put the question to Gervis, who shrugged.

“Based on this rate of freezing, a week? We could maybe push it with an oxygen tank but I wouldn’t like to go over two weeks. And that’s if you stop all activity.”

Two weeks. He considered. “If there was a cure, if we got it so it would stop forming the ice, would the treatments be able to break up the ice that’s already there?”

“In theory.”

“Then let’s wait.” He held up a hand to stifle the doctor’s sputtering protests. “For now, not forever.” Not yet, anyway. “Talk to Agent Carter. I know she’s working on a new lead, but I don’t know what it is. If she thinks she might be close…” Trailing off, he felt oddly embarrassed. Maybe he was delaying the inevitable, but he had to try.

Still scowling, Gervis leapt to his feet and began rummaging in a cupboard, giving Steve enough time to gratefully pull himself together. “Well, it’s better to avoid comas if possible. While we wait to hear from her, though, you are going to do _everything_ I say or I will knock you unconscious myself.” He turned around, arms full of pill bottles. “Starting with that wheelchair, all the time. And _no_ pushing yourself around, either.”

Steve nodded, not even wanting to put up a fight. Whatever it took to keep living.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Chris is Very Nearly Right

As good as the first half of the week had been, the second half was miserable. From the minute they sent him home with a nurse in a SHIELD van, he had been babied and patronized until he wanted to ralph. He wasn’t allowed downstairs to work on the Expo, so everything was done now by video conference. They wouldn’t take him to the hospitals. He couldn’t even hardly go to the bathroom by himself, because Jarvis, now working in complete cooperation with Gervis, tracked his every heartbeat. If it went on much longer, it was going to drive him crazy. Luckily, he told himself grimly as he stared at the dark ceiling instead of sleeping, it wasn’t going to go on much longer. Either they would force him into a medical coma, or Ivy would find the cure, or he would die. At three in the morning, he wasn’t always sure which of those was most likely.

Part of that was because he hadn’t spoken with nor heard from Ivy since it got really bad. She must have told Gervis she was close to a cure because he had stopped haranguing every time he came to the Tower for the treatments. More than that Steve did not know. He was beginning to be worried; this silence wasn’t like her. However, he couldn’t get too bent out of shape. He wasn’t feeling too talkative these days either.

* * *

 

Ivy blinked slowly, eyelids heavy. It may have been a mistake to take a sleeping pill when she barely had five hours before she had to be awake, but she had learned by now she wouldn’t get any rest at all if she didn’t. Groaning, she rolled into a sitting position and pushed her hair off her face. Coffee – coffee was the first thing, and cold water to wake her, and something to keep her hair back under the headset. And then? Chris had her notes; they had set up the command station last night; the technical connections at Hrodna were being checked at that end. There was nothing left to be done except the mission itself. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, glancing at her watch. 0430 – T-thirty minutes and counting.

By 0445, she was in her chair, coffee in hand and one for Chris on the table, chatting easily with the mission coordinator in Belarus. “Yes, 8 am _is_ an odd time,” he was saying jovially, “which leads us to believe he’s local and not unfamiliar. With luck you’ll get the whole rat-trap.”

“Touch wood,” she replied laughingly, pretending more ease than she felt. They _had_ to get the whole rat-trap; Steve was counting on them. “It seems odd, too, that with all those empty woods he’d choose to rendezvous in the city. We assume Curic lives there, but to meet there as well?”

The coordinator made a long answer that Ivy only half listened to. T-10 minutes, and Christ was sliding into his seat across from her, quietly speaking to someone in his own earpiece. He caught her eye and nodded once in confirmation. Launching herself into the stream of conversation, she cut off her counterpart mid-sentence. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m getting the go-ahead from my second. I’d like to keep the channel clear.”

“Of course, Agent.” His voice was suddenly business-like. “Mallard, report.”

The agent impersonating the contact responded promptly, Georgian accent already in place. “On route.”

Though both the SHIELD base and the meeting-place were in Hrodna, the van carrying Mallard and his bodyguard took a circuitous way through the city. For safety, they were only wearing ear-comms – a choice Ivy had approved of at the time and now regretted. No cameras meant nothing to stare at, which meant she had plenty of time for the thoughts she had drugged into silence last night to appear in full force. By now, she knew, she should stop being worried before missions. This was, what, her seventh mission? and no one had been injured since Greenland. The problem was, this time it wasn’t enough for the agents actually in the field to escape injury. No more weapons caches or sex trafficking kingpins would make up for missing Curic. Steve was sitting at home freezing over and they needed a success, a proper success, to keep him safe. It was Curic, or she had failed.

The van door slammed shut with a resounding crash, startling her out of her reverie. Heart racing, she flipped a switch and spoke to all team members on the frequency. “Contact initiated. Operation Dragon is go.”

A nerve-wracking minute of silence as her agents made their way into the abandoned building. Then Mallard spoke, giving the code word in Russian. His voice echoed, giving a mental picture of the large, empty room. Ivy held her breath, hoping they hadn’t been misinformed by the prisoner in Georgia.

A second voice answered in the same language. Ivy glanced up at the screen displaying the automatic translation. “ _First, the money._ ”

Cool as ice, Mallard gave a curt order to the agent acting as his bodyguard. _“Give it to him._ ” There was a rustle, followed by some beeping, which Ivy assumed was Curic’s agent punching his account information into the tablet her agents had handed him for the purpose. She glanced at Chris, who gave her a thumbs up. The information was being loaded onto their server at the same time.

 _“I will keep this.”_ It was not a question.

“ _It’s yours,”_ Mallard said. “ _The package?”_

The other man grunted. After a pause, there was a heavy thunk on the floor. _“Here. I don’t recommend opening it now – these things go off if a butterfly breathes.”_

 _“Think I’ll check all the same. I’d rather die now than later if they aren’t what my boss paid for. You understand.”_ A noise that sounded like locks flicking open. “ _Your boss probably has all kinds of fun ways to kill people.”_

Curic’s agent did not rise to the bait. “ _Satisfied?”_

“Da.”

_“Good. Now turn around and go back to your vehicle. We’re done here.”_

Mallard and Bodyguard went back to the car slowly, scuffing up gravel and once cursing fluidly. “ _Don’t drop it, you ----,_ ” Mallard roared, and Bodyguard murmured an ungracious apology. Ivy smiled. With all that racket, Curic’s people would be hard-pressed to hear her agents moving in. The car doors slammed shut again and Mallard’s voice, in English, came over the line. “Little Rat still at X. Will have to leave to minimize suspicion.”

“Roger. Loop around when instructed. All agents, prepare to track Little Rat.”

Now for Phase Two. She looked up at Chris again. He nodded, flipping on the viewer that displayed the feeds from the five agents situated at the exits of the warehouse. “The account is in the Maldives,” he said as an afterthought. She gave her own nod of acknowledgement, tapping her fingers on her leg. Why wasn’t he moving?

After what felt like an hour but was, by her watch, three minutes, there was a movement in one quadrant of the monitor. Snapping her fingers at Chris, she hissed “Which one is that?”

“Four.”

“Four, we have-”

“Roger, I see him.” The picture shook, a thin film coming down over the lens for a second. The figure on the screen, now dim, displayed a rectangular glow under one arm. “Little Rat confirmed. He has the tablet. Shadowing now.”

“Roger. All agents, Little Rat is leaving by the southwest exit. That will be Shadow Plan Gamma.”

The other agents’ voices floated back to her, echoing whispered “roger”s and “copy”s. Then the cameras all got shaky as they moved into position, until it almost made her sick to look at them. But she couldn’t look away, her eyes following the figure of Curic’s lackey as he bobbed along in front of Agent Four. Once, he turned and looked over his shoulder, causing Four to duck behind something.

“Two, this is Four. I’ve been made. Little Rat is heading your way.”

“Roger.” And just like that, camera four ducked into a shop, while she caught sight of the suspect on camera two. Agent Two followed him in an oblique circle, until he looked furtively either way and headed for an alley where a solitary lorry waited, engine idling. “Two here. Little Rat is approaching vehicle. Coordinates-” He paused, then rattled off a string of numbers that Chris quickly scribbled down before imputing it into the satellite GPS. “Confirm.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

Her mobile units swung into position, creating a three block radius around the lorry. He turned right, they were there. Left, there were there too. Ivy watched, amazed, as the tailed vehicle slid from one surveillance camera to the next, as smoothly as if it had been choreographed. It was, miraculously, working. They switched off until the lorry exited the city proper, driving in solitude down a long dirt track. “Fall back,” she directed, “stand-by for further instructions.” Adrenaline pumping, she turned to Chris. “Agent Miller, notify the Eagle. We’re initiating Phase Three.”

“Yes, sir!” Pulling down his microphone as if he had been waiting for this all day – which Ivy knew he had – he spoke into it clearly. “Eagle, Target is at coordinates previously sent minus five minutes southwest. Do you have him?”

Above both their heads, the camera on the plane hovering 7000ft up switched on, showing the lorry, small as an ant, speeding into a wood. “We got him.”

“Then stay on him!” Chris put his hand over both his microphones and almost smiled at her. “Good call on the plane, sir.”

“Thank you, agent.” She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the screen. As the car was lost in the trees, she had to keep herself from closing her eyes. What if the thermal camera didn’t turn on? But it did, almost instantly, displaying two orange dots flying through the dark clouds of the trees.

“Perfect,” Chris said.

Ivy allowed herself a small smile, but gripped the wooden pencil she had brought from him. Every time he said something, she felt the clouds of impending doom grow darker.

The lorry drove, completely uneventfully, in a more or less straight line for nearly an hour. After dispatching the unnecessary agents back to their base and giving the necessary ones minute directions, she had a hard time keeping from burying her face in her hands ‘til it was over. Worse, her sleeping pill had not entirely worn off, while the coffee and adrenaline had; each blink was longer than the last and she resorted to biting her tongue to keep awake. It was not as successful as she had hoped.

“Agent Carter!”

She started up. Looking around wildly, her eye fell on the overhead feed. Little Rat and his driver were no longer the only orange on the screen. Now they drove towards a massive orange and yellow blob, which shaded to white at the edge of the picture. “What is _that?”_ she demanded, half-rising from her seat.

The pilot’s strained voice came over the comm. “We can’t tell. There appears to be smoke obscuring the systems.”

“A fire?” She turned to Chris for an answer; he nodded, indicating the possibility. But a fire wouldn’t be naturally occurring, not in the dead of winter in Belarus. It had to be intentional, and that meant it had to be –

She grew very still, trying to think of the next steps. Later, she would think about how she knew something like this would happen. The important thing now was to not let anything slip away. “Eagle,” she said after three heartbeats. “Get as low as you safely can. We have to figure out what’s going on. Cats, overtake the vehicle and take Little Rat into custody. And do it fast. Chris, I’m going to need haz-mat suits and a science team.”

He nodded, face grey.

“Base, this is Eagle. We are at 1000 feet and holding. Our sensors are picking up massive amounts of toxins in the air. We can’t see anything through the smoke.”

It’s all gone, she thought wildly. Curic, cure -

“Base, this is Big Cat. We can hear the fire crackling from here and are stopping for safety. Little Rat will have to come back this way.”

“Can you see what’s burning?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“Negative,” the pilot said. Big Cat agreed. Christ waved a hand to get her attention and pointed to the screen. The two dots that represented the lorry had made an about face and were now speeding toward the half-ring of dots that represented her chase team. “That’s something,” he said, but she shook her head, not daring to hope yet.

They watched until the lorry came to a stop, waiting with baited breath as two dots detached themselves from the clump and joined the two orange – red? – dots of the prey. There was a silence. _Oh God,_ she had enough time to think desperately. Then –

“We’re too late.”

The words reverberated through the room, dropping into the stillness like a stone in a pond. She felt as if someone had squeezed all the breath out of her body, all the breath and all the emotion and all the coherent thoughts, leaving nothing but emptiness. _Too late._

Chris glanced at Ivy, stricken. “Cyanide,” he said. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“We should have.” To her own ears, her voice sounded flat and dull. She couldn’t muster up enough energy for more, even disappointment. “Agent Romanoff told me they did that.”

A voice crackled over the speaker. “Any further instructions? It’s going to get pretty hot here, pretty fast.” 

“Pull out, agents. There’s nothing more for you to do.”

“Roger that.”

Over the comm they could hear the engines revving; Eagle’s pilot gave his co-pilots tersely worded instructions to do the same. Ivy listened with half her attention, pushing her headset around her neck so she could grab the roots of her hair and try to think. Chris had ripped off his headset and was swearing a blue streak, words she wouldn’t even had thought he knew. Any other time, she might have been amused. Now, she couldn’t feel anything, anything except a rock-like dread. What was she going to say to Steve?

“Why did they do it, the -- - - -- ?” Chris muttered angrily. “We could have got them out of the fire. Life in prison is better than no life.”

“Curic would kill them anyway,” she answered automatically, head in her hands. Steve. Steve. Steve.

“But he’s --- dead, too! Who was there to --- come after them?”

She didn’t answer, trying to move into coherence. Curic dead almost certainly equaled Steve dead. No. That was not an option. There had to be something more, something else. He couldn’t die. She couldn’t let him die.

“Maybe if he was ---- alive, it would make sense! But if he’s ---- burned to a ---- crisp-”

The idea hit her like a flash of lightning, like Isacc Newton’s apple falling on his head. She leapt to her feet, jerking the headset back up. “Chris, get me Hrodna. No, Minsk. Or wherever the best science team in the area is, I don’t care. Call whatever they have to put out fires and let them know about this one and get that science team there as soon as their suits won’t melt around them.”

He paused in his invective, staring at her confusedly. “Agent Carter, that fire is so hot, there won’t be anything left.”

“No, but Chris, don’t you see?” She pulled out their file on Curic and started jabbing pictures across the table at him. “Look, here he is in Moldova, in Georgia, in the Czech Republic. What is the common denominator here?”

He looked down at them blankly. “Soviet bloc cities?”

“Cities, Chris!” She slapped the file shut and sat down again, then rose just as quickly. Maybe she was grasping at straws, but by God, she would grasp at them until they burned in her hands. “Curic always lives in cities. Why are we assuming that he was at a base in the woods? Maybe the lackey was playing another game. Maybe he was going to his own den of iniquity. Maybe he was going to Curic’s workshop but Curic burned it down himself on purpose. I don’t know, but-” She stopped, tripping over her words. But maybe there was another answer; maybe Steve wasn’t doomed just yet. Taking a deep breath, she spoke more slowly as she saw Chris’s eyes begin to clear with understanding. “Chris, it’s just like you said: why would they kill themselves if they thought Curic was dead? There  _has_ to be a chance. We can’t just let it pass. Not like Greenland.” 

He nodded, slowly. “You’re right,” he said. “There’s a good chance.” Then, in one quick motion, he retrieved his headset and put it back on. “Get me the base at Hrodna,” he ordered whoever was on the other line. “The mission isn’t over.”

* * *

She didn’t sleep for the two days it took to hear back from the science team on the ground. When Chris brought the news, she didn’t even need him to speak.

“I’m sorry, Agent,” he said.

Somehow – she never knew how, exactly – she managed to keep her face from crumpling in on itself until he left the room, the DNA results of the remains found on site still under his arm. She held it together all the way up in the lift, on the streets, in the Tube, and did not, not until the door of her flat had been shut and locked behind her, fall to the ground and weep.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Was Emotionally Inspired By Fringe

She had cried out all her tears, and Steve, as far as she was aware, didn’t cry at all, so it was with dry, if exhausted, eyes that they stared at each other through their computer screens.

“So, what now?” he asked.

She didn’t know.

“It’s definitely Curic?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure where they had dug up the DNA to test the remains against, but Chris assured her the margin of error was so small it was essentially non-existent. “Unless  _he_ has a son we don’t know about.”

“Were you able to find where he was living? Maybe there are notes-?”

She was already shaking her head. “We found it, but there was nothing there but tins of soup. Same with Moldova, and everywhere else we know about. He was very thorough.” He had to have been, of course, to run a weapons manufacturing firm under the radar for so long. She wondered, for the thousandth time, what had caught up to him in the end. Wondered, too, why it couldn’t have been her. But it was water under the bridge, now. She was just cycling round the stages of grief again.

“With his account information…” Steve tried again, only to trail off as she shook her head. Everything, they had tried everything, and come up at a dead end every time. He grew quiet; she matched him. The less she had to try to find the words to dash his hopes, the better. She buried her hands in her hair, propping her elbows on the desk and trying to give him as much space as possible. She knew it wasn’t much.

“Did you tell Gervis?”

“No. I wanted to tell you first.” Her failure meant Steve was now faced with an impossible choice; it was only right that she break the news herself. To leave Gervis to spring it on him would be – yes, she meant this word – a betrayal. What they had built between them these last six months demanded more.

He nodded slowly, thoughts racing. Without being told, he knew why she had waited to inform Gervis and was grateful for it. Now, barring a miracle, there was no cure coming. Now, he couldn’t put it off anymore. His hands tensed into fists.

“So, yes,” she said, lamely. “That was all. I’m – I’m sorry, Steve. There wasn’t anything else I could have done.”

On one hand, he knew that was true. It was a freak accident. If not for the fire, she would have got him. (Technically, he supposed she _did_ have what was left of him.) But on the other – oh, it wouldn’t be _right_ to lash out at her. He had seen her driven to the end of her rope. No one could have tried harder. But – He bit his tongue to keep the harsh words pulsing there from tumbling out. It wasn’t her fault, he told himself firmly. It just happened.

The best thing about dealing with Steve, Ivy thought, was that you could read whatever he was feeling on his face. One never had to guess with him. Now, for example, she knew he was trying desperately to keep from accusing her of something. She almost wished he would. What it was exactly, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t be anything she hadn’t already accused herself of. Curled in a fetal position with tears dripping down her face, she had gone over every single decision she had made since Greenland. Once the crying fit had passed, though, and she dragged to the bathroom to splash water on her face, she had looked herself in the eye and known she couldn’t have done anything differently. She had done what she thought was best. It hadn’t worked out, but that happened. It was awful, but it was _life_.

No, she wouldn’t change anything that had passed. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t give a good deal to change what was coming.

“We’ll put more pressure on the Winter Soldier,” she said. “But I wouldn’t – it doesn’t seem likely that we’ll get anything.”

He wished she would stop mincing words.

“So,” she went on carefully, “Gervis will want to talk to you.”

“I know,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “He’ll want to talk me into letting him put me to sleep so I die in another seventy years instead of now. I kind of thought I had already avoided dying for long enough.”

He expected a rise out of her, but she only looked more tired as she answered. “It might not be seventy years, Steve. We might find a cure yet. I’ve just got permission to send blood samples to our science teams at the Academy and at the research bases. All those scientists – they say if a man can create something, another one can figure it out.”

“Eventually,” he scoffed.

She made a valiant attempt at a smile. “Sooner than you think.”

He wasn’t fooled. For five months, SHIELD had been trying to figure it out, and all their best efforts had done was make it worse. He didn’t hold out much hope that they would have success now just because there were more of them working on it. “I don’t want to do it.”

“I understand that, I do, really. I just think you aren’t viewing the situation fairly.” Why couldn’t he see she was offering him a chance? She knew he was scared, but it wasn’t like he was imagining. She had to believe they could beat this thing.

“Whether I am or not, that’s my decision, isn’t it? I don’t need anyone’s permission.”

“To die?” Her voice squeaked on the second word. “No, I suppose not. You’re perfectly able to commit suicide if you like.”

Shifting in his chair, he didn’t meet her angry gaze. Why did she have to take it to that extreme? “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, forgive me. Rolling over and not trying to fight it is not at all the same as killing yourself.”

“Ivy…” He started, then stopped, not sure how to explain.

She crossed her arms in front of her. “Are you going to try to make me understand, Steve? Feel free.”

He couldn’t. From the look on her face, he knew she had closed her mind to his reasoning just as surely as he had shut his mind to hers. But even if he had not, he didn’t know if he would be able to explain how scared he was of going to sleep and waking up to find everyone he cared about dead. Again. “If there was any hope…” he said instead.

“I’ve got plenty.”

“No, you don’t.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. “What do you mean I don’t?”

He gestured with a weary hand. “It doesn’t take a genius to see it. You don’t think they’ll find anything to fix me.”

She was taken aback. Was that the impression she was giving? It wasn’t true – not really, at least. She did think, in time, they’d come up with a solution. How much time, at what cost, with how many setbacks –

“See.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “You can’t deny it. It’s not worth it, Ivy – living like that isn’t living.”

“No, only-” She stopped, weighing each word. He _had_ to see. Somehow she had to make him see. “If I seem hesitant, it’s only because it’s been so difficult so far. You just don’t know how it’s been, Steve. Every day is one step forward two steps back.”

He interrupted what she was going to say next. “And why should this be any different?”

The words lashed out at her, sharp and pointed. He didn’t care. It had been hard for her? It was hard for him, too. Every single day he woke up at sea, unable to get his bearings, living a life he hardly understood. With this ice slowly choking off his air, his blood, he wasn’t able to do anything at all to make himself worthwhile; without it, who knew how long in the future, he would be starting again from square one. All he had wanted was to live well and die at his appointed time, having made it worth something. That had been taken away from him already once, and he couldn’t let it happen again. There was no happy ending for him here. He couldn’t imagine one, no matter how hard he tried.

She bristled up, stung at the accusation he didn’t even have to verbalize. He didn’t think she could manage to pull it off, that she would always fail. So much for being partners, for trusting her; circumstances blew up in her face and it was game over. So that was what he thought about it, hmm? He was going to take that line? Fine. Two could play that game. She didn’t hardly recognise her voice as it broke out of her. “I don’t know that it would. But I can’t believe that you of all people just want to give up.” 

“I am _not_ giving up.”

Eyes flashing, she pursed her lips and didn’t respond.

And there didn’t seem to be anything more to say after that.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Steve Has Dinner With Pepper. And Sense.

That night, he ignored what his mother had taught him and went to bed angry. Went to bed, but not to sleep. For one thing, the nurse wouldn’t let him lie down anymore without an oxygen mask, which was noisy and uncomfortable. For another, he had been made to take a nap in the middle of the day and he wasn’t enough of an invalid to need all that sleep. But he was fooling himself if he thought his tossing and turning was due to either of those reasons. The argument kept returning to his thoughts. He chewed over it like a cow with her cud, each time remembering it with more acid. Quitting? Facing the facts about what was left of his life was the same as committing suicide? The very suggestion made his blood boil.

“Sir, you need to lower your heart rate.”

“Shut up, Jarvis.” He pushed aside the covers forcefully, shoving with it regret at being rude to a computer of all things, and heaved himself to his feet. “I’m just going to the balcony. I need some air.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir.”

“How often does Stark do what you recommend?”

Jarvis kept silent after that, so Steve assumed he got his point across. On shaky legs, he quietly made his way out into the main room, trying not to disturb the nurse sacked out on the couch. If he could just get outside, he would feel better. Sliding open the door to the balcony, he gasped as the blast of icy air hit his face. Maybe he should go back inside for a coat. On second thought, no. He might not make it out a second time and – he laughed grimly – he was going to freeze to death anyway. May as well be now.

He brushed the snow off the plastic chair someone had placed there and sat in it, drawing his knees up to his chest. Something in his chest crackled, sending a slice of pain through his mid-section. No matter. He breathed through it. The city spread out before him, lit and bustling; some people even had Christmas lights up already. Resting his chin on his knees, he watched the lights of the cars below flow by in a steady stream. This was something new for him – in his time, there hadn’t been nearly as many cars. What there had been were rarely driven (gas rationing) and never after dark (blackout restrictions). It was kind of beautiful. Around the base of the Tower, too, on the viaduct he had become so familiar with last summer, cars and big trucks snaked their way around the construction zones. The blaring horns of vehicles neatly avoiding accidents floated up to him through the night sky. Amazing, he thought, shaking his head. In the dark, it was like Loki had never come. If he had been defrosted this morning and set down here right now, he would have said New York was the same as ever. Of course, if he had been set here right now, who knew what the city would look like? 

He shoved that thought aside. What had happened wasn’t the problem here. He might not have liked how it had been possible, but he was glad that he had been able to help stop Loki. They would have managed without him, of course. But he was glad, all the same. And to fight alongside the others, and to have met Agent Coulson. And even – his jaw clenched. Yes, she was worth it, too. Despite the fact that he was still very angry, he was glad to have known her. She had been…a comfort to him. Which was no doubt, he realized, suddenly aware of a new sadness, why her words had hurt so much. This whole time, she had understood how he felt. So why now, when it was so important, did she refuse to do so?

A knock from behind startled him out of his reverie, and he turned to see his nurse shivering in the doorway. “Captain, you can’t be out here. You’ll catch your death.”

 _Already have_ , he thought but didn’t say. “Couldn’t sleep.” He could see the words forming on the other man’s lips, so he anticipated the answer. “And no, I won’t have any sleeping pills, thank you.”

Brandon nodded. “Warm milk? You guys used to drink that all the time, right?"

He got to his feet, knowing Brandon wouldn’t leave him alone until he went in. “My mother used to make me drink it sometimes.” A sudden memory of her cool hands on his forehead as she handed him the cup hit him like a train, and he had to make his next words intentionally light. “I hate the way it makes my teeth feel.”

Brandon did not, as Steve had expected, make him go back to bed. Instead, he flipped on an old, old movie with actors Steve recognized and set him up in a chair, sitting and watching with him while Steve drank the entire mug. Not until he realized his eyelids were drooping did Steve figure out that he had been duped. “No fair,” he said fuzzily as Brandon draped an afghan over him.

“Whatever it takes, Captain. I don’t want anyone coming down on my butt.”

Steve wanted to protest, but the blanket was warm and the burble of voices on the television soothing and the milk felt good in his stomach, so he decided to take a rain check. He would still have at least one tomorrow…

* * *

 

In the morning, though, he didn’t have time to be upset with Ivy or his nurse. He slept late – the natural side-effect of SHIELD’s knockout drops – and only woke up in time to put on a tie before his morning meeting via video camera with the Expo team. Sitting in the wheelchair at his kitchen table, he stacked his notes in a tidy pile and adjusted the angle of the screen before opening the call. The team sat around a long table, most of their faces hidden. “Good morning, everybody. I was just thinking we haven’t talked about the accommodations for out-of-town speakers. Can anyone tell me where we stand on that?”

One of the staffers got to her feet. “The hotels in Flushing are pretty disgusting, so last time they put them up at nice hotels in the city and shuttled them out. Not sure where that was in the budget and that was obviously pre-aliens so-” She stopped mid-sentence, staring at something behind the camera. The other members of the team stood as well.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

In answer, a cheerful red-head came suddenly into view. “Good morning, Captain. I just thought I’d sit in on a meeting or two. Do you mind?”

He swallowed his surprise and the sudden rush of nerves. “Of course not, Miss Potts. Feel free.”

She sat through the whole meeting, taking copious notes but only speaking when asked a direct question. At the end, she stood and flipped the cover on her tablet shut with a snap. “Captain, may I have a private meeting?”

“It would be my pleasure.” The words were automatic, even as his mind raced to figure out what he would need to shove aside to make space for her. Brandon would just have to deal with no afternoon nap.

“I’ll come up now, then.”

Now? No. Gervis would be here any minute; he didn’t want Miss Potts to see that. “This isn’t a good time for me, ma’am. Could you do” – he calculated the time for the treatment, plus recovery – “three?”

She raised her eyebrows amusedly. “Three it is, Captain. Don’t be late.”

He was not late, though he did roll out to meet her with the imprint of the oxygen mask on his face. Brandon had not been okay letting him go without napping, despite Steve’s best efforts. She sat on his couch, legs crossed in front of her, scrolling casually through something on her tablet. Scrubbing at his cheek to remove the mark, he pushed himself up and extended a hand to her. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am.”

“Likewise, Captain.” She gave his hand a firm shake and motioned for him to sit back down, which he did gratefully. “But I’m sorry to see you’re not improving.”

“I’m holding up,” he said, trying to smile but knowing it looked more like a grimace.

Her eyes filled with concern. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Are they any closer to, um, finding that guy or whatever they needed to do?”

From the corner of his eye Steve saw Brandon flinch. Was that supposed to be classified information? Too late now. “He, um, he…wasn’t able to help them. They’re back to hoping their scientists can figure something out.”

“Do they think they’re going to be able to find something?”

He looked over her shoulder as he answered. “They’re optimistic.” Out loud, anyway. If Gervis had said it once, he had said it a hundred times. But not soon enough. He hoped that was enough information for her to end the conversation, but instead she cocked her head to one side and looked at him steadily. The appraisal made him squirm.

“What do you think, Captain?”

“Oh, well-” He shifted in the seat. “A soldier has to be prepared for anything.”

She narrowed her eyes skeptically. Then, apparently realizing he didn’t want to talk about it, she cleared her face and refreshed the screen on her tablet. “So, are you prepared for torrential rain opening night?”

With a sigh of relief, he pulled out his own sheaf of notes and spread them out in front of her. The next two hours were spent productively, going over the plans for the Expo in both general and specific. Steve was glad of the opportunity to explain. He had been a little worried that no one would have the right information to continue after he was gone. They could have worked longer, but Brandon broke in at five. “Excuse me, but Captain Rogers needs to eat.”

She looked at her watch, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t even think. Don’t let me keep you from dinner.”

As if it were anything to look forward to – a lonely meal of boring food and nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. His chest clenched up, but not the usual way. “Would you like to stay? It’s nothing fancy but…” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. “That’s okay now, right? I know you and Stark are – together. Or whatever they call it.”

She laughed, nicely. “Thank you, Captain, I would love to have dinner with you.” Winking, she added, “What Tony doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

While he and Brandon got the meal ready – he was not an invalid and he would not act like one, not if it killed him – she examined the decorating job with a critical eye. “I haven’t seen it since they were done. If it was up to Tony we would have painted red, white, and blue. I was able to talk him into something more subtle.”

“Thank you,” he said fervently, imagining it. “And thank you for the suite, too. I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t be stopped. I always encourage unselfishness.” She came to a rest by the drafting table, running a finger along its smooth top. “Are these your drawings? May I look?”

He paused in his salad tossing, trying to picture what was there. Not anything too personal, if he remembered correctly. “Sure. They’re nothing to Dore but better than Rothko, in my opinion.”

She smiled in response as she examined each of the big sheets of paper. Lately he had been using the table more, since its edges were better to rest his elbows on than the metal arms of the wheelchair. His drawings, though, hadn’t widened in size; each sheet probably had five or six smaller sketches on it. “These are good,” she said finally.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not.” She came to sit down at the table, bringing one of the drawings folded in half. He couldn’t see which one it was as he set the dish of plain broiled chicken down in front of her. “They’re very open and honest. But that’s just the way you are, right?”

“Hope so.” Surveying the meal laid out, he mentally checked off each component. Everything was there and looked edible. He turned his wheelchair to face Brandon. “Since Miss Potts is here, you can be dismissed for awhile. Get some fresh air. Eat spicy food.”

As Steve had known he would, Brandon leapt at the opportunity. Even the luxury of Stark Tower was stifling after awhile. “I have my phone if you need anything. Have the computer call me.” Shrugging his coat over his shoulders, he stopped only to park Steve’s chair and let the door slam shut behind him.

Steve glanced at his dinner companion, apologetic. “Sorry. He hasn’t been out of here for a week.”

“No problem.” As he served, she poured the water, then sat down and unfolded the paper she had brought over. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something privately.”

Concentrating on spearing spinach leaves, he didn’t look up. “Sure.”

“Do you think your life is worth living?”

Startled, he looked up quickly. She met his eyes with confidence and tapped the drawing beside her like it proved something. It was only rubble from a combat zone and a view of the construction from his window – what did she think that meant? He went to pick it up, but she held it flat to the table. “Because your drawings say that you don’t.”

“Every life is worth living.”

“But _yours_ , Captain.”

“I-” He stopped, unable to finish his denial. _Did_ he think so? Well, yes, he guessed so. He was alive now. He could learn things. He could help people. He could, as the television was so fond of telling him, “make a difference”. Or, at least, he could have. His options were severely limited now. This life, cooped up in the Tower with almost nothing to do and no way to serve – this life, he wasn’t sure was worth anything. So what? It wasn’t going to be his much longer.

With that thought, understanding dawned. “Did SHIELD send you?” The words rasped out, accusing.

“I wish; I’m dying to see HQ.” At his glare, she stopped smiling and shook her head. “No, Captain. I’m not here on suicide watch. Honestly, I came to check in on the Expo.”

He jabbed at his chicken, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “So why would you say something like that? How did you even know?”

For a minute, she didn’t say anything, toying with the food on her plate as he angrily did the same. Couldn’t they leave a guy alone? Couldn’t they understand how he felt?

“Tony was dying, once.”

Well, he knew that; he had been there. Or did she mean…

“I don’t know how long he knew about it and didn’t tell me,” she continued. “I didn’t find out until it was all over. But when I did a lot of things started to make sense. For months he had been hiding behind the most outrageous behavior – trying to forget, trying to fool everyone, trying to live as much as he could before he died – it was a lot of things. But really what it was was trying to leave a legacy.” Trailing off invitingly, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He saw the trap, but couldn’t help from falling into it.

“It’s not that. I don’t care if anyone remembers me.”

“Are you afraid of dying?”

Afraid of dying? He scoffed. “I’ve faced death more times than I can count. It’s not the worst thing that can happen to you.”

Her voice was very gentle. “What is the worst thing, Steve?”

The tears smarted in his eyes, and he wiped them away with one thumb. “It already happened,” he heard himself saying. “I died, and came back to life in a new world.”

She didn’t say anything, only looked at him sympathetically. The softness in her face was more than he could stand to see. Pillowing his cheeks on the balls of his hands, he scowled at the table and let the words flow out of him for the first time. “It’s like that book, _A Tale of Two Cities_. Did you ever read it? This guy gets put into prison and everyone thinks he’s dead for seventeen years. Then they find him, somehow, and the question they ask him is, “Do you want to live?” But he can’t tell them. He hardly knows how to live anymore. His baby daughter is a grown woman and the world is all different than it was before. That’s what it’s like for me.” Looking up, he saw that she understood. Relief swept through him. Finally, _someone_ understood. “They want to put me in a medical coma to stop it getting worse. I would rather just die than live but have to start all over again.”

“What if it’s not that long?” she asked.

“I don’t want to risk it.” He shook his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Miss Potts.”

“I see.” Leaning back in the chair, she nodded thoughtfully.

“Then you see why I can’t agree?”

“Actually, I think you're being completely ridiculous.”

Her tone was cool and she made a face as if to say _and what are you going to do about it?_ He didn’t know how to respond – give him a minute and he could come up with something, but he had been so sure – “So you understand, but don’t agree.”

She pretended to consider for a second, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “Yes, I think that about sums it up.”

That was what his mother had called “smart-mouthing”, and it made every hackle he had rise. Maybe literally, because she relented, suddenly serious again.

“Captain, look. You said it was the worst that could happen but it isn’t, really, is it? You’ve already done it once. And look at you!”

“Yes.” He snorted, gesturing to the food in front of him and the medicine bottles on the counter and his own nearly solid body in a wheelchair. “I’m doing great.”

“But that’s just a circumstance. They’ll fix it.” She leaned in towards the table, skewering him with a look. He couldn’t glance away, no matter how much he wanted to. “I’m talking about your _life_ , Steve.”

“They could have stopped Loki without me,” he mumbled, and shoved away a sense of déjà vu.

“Maybe. Probably not. And I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the things you do without anybody asking.”

The hospitals, she meant; the clean-up before Bucky; maybe even now, with the Expo. “So I need to let them freeze me again because I might be useful in the future? Like – a hero on layaway?”

“No.” Shaking her head, she repeated it with more emphasis. “No. Not for us. For you.”

“For me?” He snorted again. She didn’t understand, after all.

“Yes, for you.” Shoving back from the table, she stalked over to the drafting table and scooped up a sheaf of paper, flipping through them before slamming them down under his nose. The top one, Gervis gazing out the window as he mixed up a smoothie, stared up at him mockingly. “Your drawings, Captain – they’re beautiful. And they’re all about your life now – the things you see, people you know. You miss your old life, but you are getting your feet under you in this new one. You like it. I think you’re being ridiculous to throw it all away because there’s a chance – a small chance, mind you – that it won’t work out.”

Slowly, he lifted the page to look at the one underneath: Hudson, the little boy from the hospital; Central Park in the summer; the lights of his city at night. Under that one, Brandon celebrating a football game on tv; Ivy at her desk; the guy who delivered Indian food when he was still allowed to eat it. Below that, he had drawn from memory the meatloaf dinner he had shared with Ivy, Chris, and Barton before Greenland. This was what he had been thinking about last night, wasn’t it? He had ignored it then, but he couldn’t ignore it when it was right in front of him. “Okay, fine.” He shoved them away. “I can see why you would say that. It doesn’t mean I have to agree.”

“No.” He looked up, surprised – what were they talking about if not that? She returned to her dinner, primly cutting into the chicken and forking a piece. “But,” she added, pointing the utensil at him, “have you even really considered it?”

While she chewed, looking pleased with herself, he buried his hands in his hair, staring down at the drawings. Damn. He didn’t want to think about that. Of course he had. What had he been doing since it got so bad, but thinking about it over and over again? Maybe he would die just so he could get away from the endless repeating cycles of thoughts. In a straight line, then: he was going to die sometime. Why not now?

He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until she answered. “When you died the first time, why did you do that?”

The image of the targeting system flashed before his eyes. “I had to.”

“And now?”

There was no answer. There was no earthly reason to die now, except because he wanted to – and that answer wouldn’t fly with her, and it didn’t fly with him, either. What kind of man had he become, that he was so afraid of pain that he’d rather die than fight through it? Ivy was right. It _was_ giving up. _He_ was giving up.

He took as deep a breath as he could manage. Not giving up meant that he would agree. Panic began to clutch at his throat, and he had to let air out slowly to make sure his heart rate stayed down. What if it didn’t work? What if he woke up in another 50 years? What if they never woke him up at all? But, he allowed himself to think for the first time, what if it did?

“You’re a lot quieter about these kinds of things than Tony is,” she said after a minute.

He looked up, not even bothering to wipe away the traces of tears on his cheek. “You give him these talks too?”

“The ‘you’re being a giant idiot’ talks? Captain, they’re my specialty.” She smiled, and he managed a weak grin in return. “I don’t want to dictate to you. It’s not my place. But it would be a pity to make an irrevocable decision without really thinking about it.”

“You’re right,” he said. With the words, a giant weight rolled off his back. He hadn’t realized it was there until he felt its absence. He needed – what did he need to do now? Talk to Gervis. Talk to Ivy. Make arrangements. Nothing Miss Potts could help with, and so nothing he needed to bother her with. Tucking the thoughts away, he picked up his fork again and tried to smile for real. “And if Stark tries to tell you otherwise, you come talk to me.”

She took a sip of water. “He’s contractually obligated to let me be right. It was in the transfer paperwork.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is as Shippy as It's Going to Get

Ivy stood on the pavement outside SHIELD-B, shivering despite her coat and woolen hat. Snowflakes drifted down lazily from the sky. No doubt that was what was holding up the transport, which should have been here fifteen minutes ago. She was intentionally not considering what else might have delayed Steve’s journey from Heathrow to HQ; even if something had gone horribly wrong they would have brought him to emergency treatment here before sending him to one of the research hospitals. It was a ridiculous worry, anyway. If he was well enough to fly across the ocean, he was unlikely to die on the way from the airport.

Suddenly too cold - or nervy - to stand still, she dashed to the corner, looked for the car, ran to the other corner in case they had been diverted, came slowly back to stand next to Chris. “They should be here by now,” she said, hating the whimper she couldn’t quite keep out of the words.

“There was traffic, ma’am.” He tilted his tablet toward her; on it, the lines on the traffic map he had pulled up were nearly all red. “They should be past the worst of it.”

Ivy nodded, hardly looking at the screen. She hoped that they had remembered to bring a jacket. But then, New York was cold, too; it snowed there as well; no doubt he had taken a jacket on the plane with him. And if not, it was a brief dash from the road to the building and she had made Chris loop an umbrella over his arm so –

Yanking the now sodden hat off her head, she ran one hand through her hair angrily. Who was she trying to fool? She wasn’t nervous about Steve’s health. It was what would come after that had her anxious. This journey had all been handled through Transport, with Gervis’ permission; the first she had known about it was when the doctor had cc’d her on the instructions to SHIELD-B’s medical personnel. She had no idea what he was thinking at present. Was he angry with her? She wouldn’t blame him. But neither would she take back what she had said. More importantly, had he changed his mind, or was this truly, as she feared, a farewell trip? But then why would he come all the way here? She could go there just as easily. And would, she acknowledged to herself, she would go in an instant if necessary. He shouldn’t be alone any more. But oh – she swallowed back a traitorous lump - oh, she _hoped_ it wasn’t that.

Deep in thought, it took a second for her to realize that Chris was brushing past her to pull open the doors to the transport, now pulling up to the kerb. She started forward, then, realizing she would just be in the way, hung back. The doors blocked her line of sight, but underneath them she could see two pairs of sturdy legs and the machinery of the chair lift. It buzzed down agonisingly slowly. With each inch, she came closer to dashing back into the building to wait there.

“Good to see you, sir,” she heard Chris say.

“Likewise,” came Steve’s voice, good-humoured, if weaker than normal. “If I thought traveling was a pain when you’re healthy…”

Then the door slammed shut and there he was, wearing a knitted hat to match the one in her hand and smiling. She could have fallen over with relief. Instead, as befitted her status and nationality, she merely smiled in return and leaned over to speak with him as the nurse rolled the chair past her. “It’s odd to be taller than you, Captain.”

“So this is what your chin looks like.” He winked, surprising her. When had she ever seen him do that?

“I never would have pictured the top of your head like that,” she answered, hoping to cover her searching examination of the rest of his appearance. There were new lines in his face that she hadn’t seen the last time they talked, and the dark circles under his eyes had deepened into caverns. But his eyes themselves – was it just poor video connection, or did they look lighter than she had seen in months? She quashed that thought with a mental grinding of her heel. There was no point in getting her hope up now. Best wait until he told her; it wouldn’t be long now.

But it took longer than she had expected to get him to the medical lab they had set up for his use and settled in there, and she had to wait for him to undergo and recover from one of the mysterious treatments before the doctors would let her in to see him.

“How long will that be?” she asked, petulantly.

The doctor shrugged. “Dr. Gervis didn’t give us a time.”

“Well, I’ll wait, then.”

She went up to her office and played Angry Birds for three hours, trying and failing to push aside the hope that persisted in popping up. He looked worse, but better. Surely a man who was about to die wouldn’t look like that, wouldn’t crack jokes with a girl who had told him he was being stupid, wouldn’t have them keeping giving long and tiring treatments that were all going to be for nothing. Surely, surely he had seen reason.

And if that were so – she paused suddenly, causing a yellow bird to bounce harmlessly off the ground. If that were so, why had he come in the first place? Surely it would be easier to stay home, under the supervision of his own doctors? What could be so important here that couldn’t be done in New York?

She was still puzzling over this when the phone rang, driving everything other than anticipation out of her mind. No more waiting; the answers were imminent. She didn’t even wait for the lift and would have gone charging into the room if an orderly hadn’t grabbed her elbow and made her scrub up. “He’s exhausted,” he warned her, “he wouldn’t take the recommended recovery period before speaking with you. I cannot stress enough how important it is that you keep him calm.”

“I understand.” She met the orderly’s eyes and tried again, more calmly. “Believe me, doctor, I will do everything in my power to keep him well. It’s my job.”

He looked skeptical, but released her reluctantly. “Go in, then. Make him take the pills on his table before you leave.”

Murmuring a promise, she took a deep breath before turning the handle. It would be fine, she thought. It was only Steve. Still, she couldn’t help the feeling that her whole life hung on this moment.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the light over his bed. In the harsh white glare, he already looked like a corpse, lying still with his eyes closed. She had to remind herself firmly that he was fine, for now, before she could get up the courage to step closer. “Steve?”

His eyes popped open and he smiled again, dispelling the death-like atmosphere and making Ivy feel like it had suddenly become June. “Ivy,” he said, struggling to sit up. “Before you say anything, I’m sorry for what happened last time we talked.”

“No, I am.” She came up to the very edge of the bed and found the remote to raise the back, pushing him back down by one shoulder. “I stand by what I said, but I didn’t have to be so harsh. I’m sorry, Steve.”

Not wanting to see his response, she briskly began smoothing down the blankets that had gotten mussed when the bed bent. As she did so he caught her hand, enveloping it and sending tingles up and down her arm. Looking into his face, she hoped desperately that she did not look as much like a startled deer as she felt. “No,” he said, “you were right.”

Oh, she was not a shrinking violet, she was not a mid-Victorian, she was a strong twenty-first century woman and she would _not_ burst into hysterics. So instead, she sank onto the edge of the bed and covered his hand with her free one, ducking her head so her hair would hide her face. “I’m so pleased, Steve,” she said when she could trust her voice.

“I’m pretty nervous,” he said frankly, “but you were right, and Miss Potts was right – my life is still worth living, and it will be no matter what happens. Or when.”

She didn’t understand the reference to Pepper Potts, but there would be time for that later. Thank God, there would be time for that later. “It’s fine, I understand, but there are things we can do – protocols we can put into place-” She stopped, realizing her words were spilling out too fast. She laughed for sheer joy, letting out with it some of the worry she had been feeling for the last four days. “I’m so happy,” she said again. “I didn’t want to lose you, Steve.”

He cleared his throat, and she was surprised to see that his own eyes were dewy. Shifting on the bed, he looked down at their still-clasped hands. “Well, I mean, you will for awhile. But we can hope it’s not too long.”

And then they sat in silence, as they had done before. But this time, Ivy felt like flying. It was overly optimistic, perhaps – after all, the cure was still an utter mystery with no solution in sight – but the fact of the matter was that there was now a 100% better chance that he would survive than before. And that was enough for this moment. She didn’t know how long they sat like that, smiling at each other, most definitely not crying.

After a bit, she realized that it was late, that Steve had had an exhausting day, and that she had promised to make him take his medicine. But she still had questions to ask if she wanted to sleep tonight; better get to those quickly. “But why did you come? You could have told me on the phone.”

He grew serious, finally letting go of her hand. “Before I go under, or whatever pretty word you want to call it to make it sound better, I needed to take care of some things. You, for one. But also-” He stopped, clearing his throat again nervously.

“What is it?” Anything at all, she would do it.

“I have to say goodbye,” he said.

“To whom?”

“To my old friends.”

She wracked her brain, trying to remember who he could mean. “Your friends that you stayed with the last time you were here?” 

“No.” His jaw moved into that position she had learnt by now meant ‘no argument’. “To Peggy. And to Bucky.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is the VERY LAST ONE

It was too late to do anything that night – like everywhere else, SHIELD support tended to go home on the dot of five – but before she left she promised Steve that she would get everything sorted by tomorrow. It shouldn’t be that complicated, especially since time was of the essence. Going up to her office, she mentally ticked off the forms she would need to get Steve into Tamsin’s: outside clearance, confidentiality agreement, medical transport. Unwieldy but not impossible. Fortunately seeing the prisoner should be much easier. Since Steve was already in the building she only had to find someone to push him downstairs.

But when they tried that the next day, they hit a block.

She looked at the Detention Secretary, aghast. “What do you mean he isn’t cleared?”

He smiled politely. “I’m sorry, he’s not on the list. Only yourself, Specialists Sloane and Patel, and Level 9s or above.”

She glanced down at Steve, wrapped up like a mummy with the drawn, pale face of a cancer patient. “Agent, I’m primary on the Winter Soldier case. This is _Captain America_. Are you really saying there’s no way you can let him in?”

In response, the other agent’s polite smile turned brittle. “I _am_ sorry.”

Of all the idiotic…she put on her own obsequious smirk and remained very sweet. “Could you then possibly tell me how I can get him on the list? I’m afraid I’ve never gone through that process.”

“Certainly.” He clacked a few keys on the computer without looking at the screen. “There. I’ve sent you an email with instructions. Was there anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Motioning to the orderly who was pushing Steve around, she led the way from Detention to the lift, where she jabbed at the button to Medical.

Steve watched her amusedly. “That button must have done something pretty bad to you.”

“What?” She looked down at her finger, which was turning white from the pressure she was using on the button. Laughing ruefully, she let go. “Sorry. I’ll take care of it and we should be all right by day after next at least.”

But she was wrong again. Day after next, she had the plans and permissions for Steve to see Aunt Peg all laid out on her desk – they had come through with no problems. But getting into the cell was proving to be as difficult as breaking into Fury’s office. Every time she took a step forward in the process it came back denied and twice as complicated. From what she could tell, Sloane and Patel were trying to block anyone from seeing the prisoner, citing possible interference with their ‘investigation’. And Ivy understood that, she really did, but she couldn’t understand why there was no way to make an exception. And she certainly didn’t understand when she had lost control over what had been _her_ investigation.

Days passed, turning into a week. The day they put Steve on full-time oxygen, she called Gervis on a secure line.

“I would have put him under two weeks ago,” he told her frankly. “Even at his high rate of cell replacement, I’m not sure how long it would take his body to repair itself from this state. You need to get him back here as soon as possible.”

With that information in hand, she filed an override request with Commander Conley. The Commander did not find sufficient justification to get involved.

Steve was silent when she told him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, almost aching with the inadequacy of the words. “I don’t know what else to do.”

He laid his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling, trying to swallow around the tubes. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” She wasn’t sure what he was assenting to.

Slowly, he turned his head and looked at her wearily. “They want to give me a trache tube tomorrow. I won’t be able to talk then.” He stopped to take a slow, shuddering breath. “If I wrote a letter, would he get it?”

It would be easy to say “yes”, and maybe it would be enough. But Ivy knew that if they didn’t have results soon, the Winter Soldier would be off to the Fridge, where people went to die alone. She couldn’t promise – didn’t even think it likely – that he would ever see anything Steve wrote. Seeing her hesitation, he came to his own conclusion, nodding. Silence lay on the room, broken only by the hissing of the medical equipment.

It was so stupid, she thought, after three wars and seventy years and everything else that had separated them so far, that the lack of a few lines of ink could do it forever. All Steve wanted was closure. It wasn’t even as if they were close to a breakthrough with the Winter Soldier. She knew; she read the reports. He was going to die without saying anything at all, and Steve was going to (eventually) die without saying what he wanted to, and all for no reason at all. It was maddening.

“Well,” he said finally, “I guess it’s just like it was before. I can live with that.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” she said. “I swear, if there was a way I’d sneak you in there myself-” And with those words, a simple but daring plan dropped into her head, as if from above. She considered it from all angles. Could she make it work? She would have to. “What time do your nurses come to check on you?” she asked, appraising the medical equipment surrounding his bed.

His eyebrows flickered in confusion. “Once an hour, more or less. It’s not regular." 

An hour. She screwed up her eyes and thought furiously. Two long hallways, the lift, another hallway… “How quickly can you say what you need to?”

* * *

 

By some miracle, they made it out of medical without setting off any alarums or being seen by the nurses. At this time of night, the rest was easy – the halls were deserted, the lifts empty, and the only people they ran into wouldn’t know her from Adam. Her only worry was for Steve, but he seemed to be holding up all right. Physically, at least. The whole way down he was silent, grimly staring off into space, oxygen tubes snaking down to a tank in his lap. She didn’t try to talk to him. She knew he was staring into the conversation ahead.

The doors to the lift binged open on the Detention Level and she left Steve there to make sure it was as empty as it should be. Sure enough, the front desk was deserted and all the overhead lights were off, leaving only a green glow from the keypad. She smiled, satisfied. So far, so good. Returning to the elevator, she stooped in front of the wheelchair. “It’s all clear, Steve. Are you ready?”

“I guess so.”

Using the arm of the chair to pull herself up, she started to unlock the brakes. “I’ll have to be in there. If I could let you be alone, I would, but I don’t know what it would do to the security system.”

“It’s fine.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s only appropriate, I guess.”

Setting her hands on the handles, she heaved hard to get it rolling. “Appropriate how?”

“This all started down a hole with you and him. Actually, it’s kinda strange that Barton isn’t here.”

She patted his shoulder reassuringly, but didn’t speak again. Her handprint let them through the pass door into the dark maze of detention cells, intentionally confusing to hinder escapes. No escape for the Winter Soldier, she thought as she pushed the wheelchair through the silent halls. Nor for Steve, either. Rolling to a stop in front of the Interrogation Room’s door, she kept one hand on Steve’s shoulder as she punched in her code with the other. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to him, suddenly anxious.

The door slid open in front of them and she pushed the chair through quickly, coming to a stop beside the table. Steve eyed the window. “He’s on the other side, there? Can he see us?”

“Not yet. Do you want to see him first?”

He shook his head. “No. We’ll be equals, one last time.” Then he closed his eyes and sat quietly, jaw moving back and forth. Ivy knew he was preparing himself; she wondered if he might be praying. She shot her own good thoughts upward, for what it was worth. It didn’t matter what happened to the Winter Soldier, but she hoped that this meeting – which she had almost certainly gotten herself a court martial for – would be everything Steve needed it to be. Oh God, please, for him.

Finally he opened his eyes and nodded to her. “Go ahead.”

She took a deep breath and slid the dial to clear, using her pinky to turn on the sound. “It’s all yours.”

At the sound of her voice, the Winter Soldier sat up on the cot, where he had been lying with his hands behind his head. Lank, dirty hair fell around his face. Ivy hadn’t seen him since that first time and she was astonished at how different he looked – like a shell of the man he was before. Starvation and torture would do that to you, she guessed.

Then she turned to Steve, and immediately felt ashamed of her almost clinical observations. Whatever she saw, he was seeing a hundredfold. The two men stared at each other hungrily, a million emotions spilling across their faces. In Steve’s she saw regret and loss, but also peace and an unearthly calm, despite the tubes and tape obscuring nearly everything but his eyes. The Winter Soldier looked almost hollow, like he couldn’t muster the energy to show the depth of what he was feeling – whatever that was. She couldn’t name what she saw there. It looked like he wanted to devour Steve – appropriate, considering all he had done to bring them to this point. Still, she couldn’t escape the impression that there was something else under there – another kind of hunger.

It took several minutes before anyone said anything. Then, as she expected, the Winter Soldier let a slow grin creep across his face. “Well, old friend, I hope you won’t take it the wrong way when I say you look terrible.”

“I feel terrible, so it’s only fair.”

“I’m honoured you took the time to come see me, then.”

“Well, I had to let you see your handiwork.”

“It was Curic’s, actually.”

Steve shrugged. “He’s already dead, so I can’t show him. Anyway, he’s not the one who shot me. And he’s not the one who’s been playing a game with me the last six months to get to this point.” Having spoken more than he had air to support, he started coughing, pounding at his chest. Ivy rushed out of the shadows and poured a glass of water from the carafe left standing on the table.

The prisoner’s eyes followed her, leering. “You have such a nice little nurse, though. Trying for a complete set?” Steve managed a glare as he fought for breath. Ignoring it, the man in the cage continued. “I’m glad you see it like a game. You were always a good loser, Steve, and you have to admit, I won pretty handily, didn’t I? Sure, I’m here, but you – you’re right where I wanted you.”

It was true, of course. In Greenland, he had said he was going to get revenge and here it was – Steve weak as a baby, unable to breathe on his own, forced back into unconsciousness to survive even another two days. The Winter Soldier had got everything he wanted. Handing the glass to Steve, she began to regret bringing him down here. How could it help him to be on the receiving end of a villain’s monologue? She shot her own daggers at the prisoner, marshalling her forces for a bitter retort.

“So how does it feel?”

Both she and the Winter Soldier turned, surprised. Steve uncurled himself and sat straight as a pike, setting the glass untouched beside him.

“You got what you wanted, so do you feel better now?”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed. “Of course,” he scoffed. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“People don’t, sometimes.” Using a hand to shove himself away from the table, Steve pointed his chair towards the door. “But if you’re satisfied, I’m satisfied. We can go now, Agent Carter.”

She sputtered, a noise that sounded kind of like “what?” and mostly like “really?” That was all? He had come all the way here in his fragile condition, agreed to this clandestine excursion in the middle of the night, for a bare three minutes? She didn’t move from her spot by the table until he looked at her inscrutably and gestured to the door. Well, then, if that was really it…

“Wait.”

Her gaze snapped back to the prisoner with the recoil of the word, which came out like it had been dragged out of him. He moved to the window and put his hand on the glass. “That’s it, then? You just came down here to give up? And now you’re going to go upstairs and die?”

Steve looked over his shoulder, eyes cool. “I’m not going to die – not yet, anyway. They’re going to freeze me again until they find a cure. But I won’t see you after that.”

“You’re going to do it again?”

If she hadn’t watched him form the words, Ivy wouldn’t have thought it was the Winter Soldier speaking. For the first time, his question wasn’t mocking or harsh or passionate. He sounded, honestly, bewildered.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“But _why_?”

She saw that Steve was trying to turn his chair back and pushed the handle appropriately. He took a deep breath. “Why what?”

The Winter Soldier began to pace, not looking into the room. “Doesn’t the idea of starting all over again, of finding yourself in a world you don’t understand, of knowing that they’re just using you for their own ends because they saved you and you owe them – doesn’t that just make you want to die?”

“Yes.” Steve’s eyes filled with hurt and the fear she thought gone. “But I won’t.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“I don’t think it’s foolish to value life.”

He stopped sharply and whirled to the window, leaning his whole gun arm on the pane of glass and shooting his words, eyes blazing, at Steve. “This. Misery. Is. Not. Life.”

Steve lowered his chin and spread out his hands in front of him. Quietly, not taking his eyes from the other man’s, he leaned forward and said,“But I’m _not_ miserable.”

Then, before her eyes, she watched the Winter Soldier crumble, as surely as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on the flames that burned in his soul. He staggered back from the window, sitting heavily on the cot when it hit the back of his knees and burying his face in his hands. She looked down at Steve. He hadn’t moved a muscle, seemingly as frozen as the Winter Soldier was melted. Only the slow up-and-down of his chest let her know he was even still breathing.

“Damn you.”

She couldn’t see his face, which was still hidden, but the strangled words gave her a clue to his expression. And she would never, ever have thought the man who met her under the mountain could look like that.

“Damn you,” he said again with more vehemence, finally looking up. Sure enough, his face was red and blotchy, and he was failing to keep the corners of his mouth as firm as he obviously would have liked. Everything had fallen in, collapsed on itself like a sinkhole. “How are you not miserable? That was the whole point. If you aren’t as miserable as I am, it’s not worth anything.”

Steve’s eyebrows rose, then quickly burrowed into a frown. “ _That’s_ what this is about?”

His incredulity matched her own. This whole miserable six months, the kidnappings and the torture, the hunt for Curic and the scientists slaving away over a cure, the sleepless nights and the oceans of tears and the angst – all because misery loves company? What about the people he had hurt in this little game of his? Didn’t that count? Her fingers tightened around the handles of the wheelchair. How _dare_ he?   

In front of her, Steve echoed some of the same ideas. “All this to make me miserable? Why the hell was that so important?” He scooted his chair forward out of her grasp, using the time to breathe. “Man, it’s been hard enough. I didn’t need help to be miserable.”

The other man cursed. “If you aren’t completely overcome by it, if you don’t wake up with it and go to bed with it and suck it in with every breath, you aren’t miserable enough.”

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but appeared to think better of it and rubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t say how it’s been for you,” he said finally. “But I know that the way to make it better is not to wallow in it.”

“You try living my life and tell me to look on the bright side.”

“Did I say ‘look on the bright side’?” Steve inched closer to the glass. “You _know_. When Mom died, how long did I sit in your bedroom and cry? Your brother didn’t have a dry pillow for a week. But I can’t still be crying about it. Life goes on.”

“See, there’s the difference between you and me, Steve.” He ducked his head and spat the words at the floor. “For you, life gets better. For me, it just goes deeper into Hell.”

“I didn’t say better, either.” Ivy couldn’t see Steve’s face, but she could hear his frustration.

“Well, what then?” A bit of the fire returned. “If it’s not miserable and not better, what else is your life?”

His question spread out through the room, filling the air with the anticipation of the answer. It was like time stopped for a second. The Winter Soldier leaned forward on his cot. Standing in the corner, Ivy held her breath.

Then Steve looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. And with that smile, Ivy was suddenly sure that everything would be all right. “Different,” he said, turning back to the window. “It’s just a life, but different.”

 Something sparked in the other man’s eyes, then went out just as quickly as it had come. “And my life, Steve?”

“It could be different too.” Leaning forward, stretching over the oxygen tank, Steve managed to spread his hand out on the glass. “If you wanted.”

The Winter Soldier looked at Steve for a moment, and Steve looked at him. And then, unmistakably, though Ivy looked twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating things through the glass, two tears trickled down his face. Slowly, he came forward and knelt before the window, placing his left hand – the gun hand – finger to finger with Steve’s. In the reflection on the window, Ivy saw Steve’s eyes close as if he was in pain. She started forward, but stopped just short of touching him. He was crying, too.

“I’m sorry,” what was left of the Winter Soldier said. 

Steve opened his eyes and patted his hand, twice, on the glass. “It’s all right, Bucky.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is The Epilogue, Set Six Months On

Ivy settled into her seat at the end of the row and immediately craned her neck upward, taking in the marvel of the glass ceiling three stories above her. This was the first time she had been in America and she couldn’t believe the scope of everything – the O2 was big, but not like this. And it was not set in smack in the middle of a complex that was only in use a few times a year. Even the temporary lavatories stretched out for ages. But then, knowing who had paid for it all, she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Realising she was about to give herself an awful cramp in her neck, Ivy turned her attention to the people filing expectantly into the seats around her. Most were professionals in suits, but down at the very front an usher was showing a group of less-polished people in Salvation Army shirts to a cordoned-off area. Ivy’s heart warmed at the sight. She thought she recognised Ms. Potts near the front sitting next to a man in uniform. Surprisingly, though, there were hardly any other uniforms visible. It was odd, she thought. Considering who was here and what had happened last time, she would have expected SHIELD, at least, to have a presence. Or – she caught a flash of red hair between the groups of people shuttling down the walkway and looked again.

Sure enough, there sat Agent Romanoff in a nice leather jacket and grey denim pants, Agent Barton on her other side. Seeing Ivy, she leaned over the arm of her seat and shouted good-naturedly. “For complimentary seats I guess we can’t complain!”

“I was hoping for backstage access!”

Agent Romanoff shook her head. “It’s boring. You’ll see much better from here.”

Ivy had to strain to hear Agent Barton’s contribution. “We’d see better farther away, too.”

“Quit grumbling,” Agent Romanoff told him, then turned back to Ivy. “I heard how you finished off the project. Good work.” She waited for another group to pass, eyeing them coolly. “You should be proud.”

Ivy felt a warm glow spreading through her. Proud? Oh yes – not in what she had done, but at the compliment from one of SHIELD’s best. She was hunting for the right words to say thank you when the lights flickered, sending an excited hum through the crowd. “This should be interesting,” Agent Romanoff said, settling back into her seat. Ivy silently agreed.

The arena went dark. The stage lights came up. And then, walking out from stage left, came Tony Stark alone – no blaring music, no fireworks, no Iron Man suit. The excited noises of a moment before turned into confused murmurs. Stark came up to the center stage, where a clear podium rose out of the ground to meet him. Placing both hands on it squarely, he looked out into the crowd. “I know, I know,” he said, “you’ve come to expect more from me. Normally my appearance is heralded by pyrotechnics the likes of which you haven’t seen since Y2K – which, to be honest, I don’t remember so I can’t say how they compare. Or maybe you’re missing the suit, and who wouldn’t? Tonight, though, is not about me. We all know why we’re here. A year ago, we all suffered an unbelievable tragedy. This night – hell, this whole little shindig – is about honouring, remembering, and then answering the question ‘Where do we go from here?’” He stopped and gave a self-deprecating grin. “I’m not saying I don’t have cool stuff to show you later on. This is an Expo, after all! Prepare to have your minds blown!”

The crowd gave a half-hearted cheer.

“But me,” Stark continued, “I’m all about looking ahead. So to give you the whole package, in a way no one else could do better, I am pleased to welcome to the stage a comrade-in-arms, a fellow New Yorker, a man who is no stranger to public speaking and one who I hope won’t kill me if I call him my friend: Ladies and Gentlemen: Captain America!”

Then the fireworks did go off – red, white, and blue of course, but also green, purple, and yellow; a rousing instrumental march blasted through the speakers; the screen displayed images from old newsreels in a revolving pattern that suggested the shield and took Ivy’s breath away. And then, looking embarrassed under the cowl, Steve strode onto the stage. Ivy leapt to her feet with the rest of the audience, clapping and cheering. He looked so _good_ : strong and graceful and healthy. No one in the audience would ever guess that six months ago he had been on the brink of death. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen him then and watched over video every step of the arduous recovery process. But look at him now! The warm glow that had started with Agent Romanoff’s words swelled inside and filled her almost to bursting.

He shook hands with Stark warmly before turning to the audience, holding up one hand in a gesture that was simultaneously an acknowledgement of their applause and a plea for it to stop. As they quieted, he stuck a hand in his pocket and tapped the podium with the other. “Can this thing go away?” Instantly, it began sinking into the floor. “Thanks, Jim.”

As Stark had done before him, Steve paused, looking out into the audience. “It’s good to be here with you all,” he said finally. “We’ve been through a lot this year. And I say we, because in my private life, I’m right there in it with you, trying to figure out how we go on when something has happened to change our lives forever. It’s not easy. But I’ve found, and I think you have found too as we work through this, that it’s at those times that we are presented with our greatest opportunities.”

As Ivy listened, she heard more than Steve was saying. To the majority of the hearers, he was only talking about the alien attack, but she heard the weight of all that had passed since then in every sentence. The rubble of the old life was real, spread on the streets of New York, but she knew that he meant it as a metaphor too. All the experiences of his last year came together in this one moment, and he let his hard-won wisdom pour out of him like a flood. It was brilliant. She wasn’t crying. Not tonight. But she couldn’t stop smiling, either.

* * *

 

After accepting the congratulations of everyone backstage and trading his suit for a pair of blue jeans, Steve made his anonymous way out into the Expo grounds. It was a beautiful night, as perfect as if he had ordered it from Montgomery Ward, and the glow of the electric lights and the carnival atmosphere surrounded him like a warm hug. People meandered by him in groups and in pairs, smiling when they weren’t exclaiming or stuffing their faces with one of the myriad delicacies from the fleet of food trucks parked throughout the grounds. A group of Salvation Army volunteers stopped him to say thank you, again, for the tickets; he smiled and agreed that it had been a great if surprising Opening Ceremony.

“We don’t mean to be greedy,” the short, round head of chapter whispered, drawing his head down so he could hear her better, “but it was full, wasn’t it? Do you know how much the donations are yet?”

“Not yet,” he told her, smiling, “but we’ll know by Monday and cut the check Tuesday.”

Before they left him, each and every member gave him an actual hug. He walked on, basking in them. He was glad that Stark had agreed to let the majority of the profits from the Expo be distributed throughout charities in the city, enabling them to continue their emergency support systems for a good long while. The Opening Ceremony tickets had been dedicated entirely to the Salvation Army, and she was right, it did look like it was going to be a hefty sum.

He stopped by the restrooms to make sure everything was running smoothly – he would never have thought bathrooms would be such a pain, but they had been the cause of most of his Expo headaches for the last five months – and then made his way to what he could not break himself of calling Information. Situated on a platform under the giant spinning globe, the complex office handled questions, problems, tours, strollers, and everything else to do with the experience. In time, he would take a turn at one of the desks to make sure everything was running smoothly. But tonight, he had other plans.

Suddenly unable to hold off any longer, he took the twenty-seven steps up to Information at a run, skipping every other one. It wasn’t strictly necessary; looking at his watch he saw he was going to be early. But he couldn’t help himself from running and leaping and jumping at every opportunity, just because he could again. It had been a long time coming – even after Bucky had given them the formula in the ice capsules, it had taken a month for Gervis and the team to figure out the antidote, two months after that of bed rest while his cells recovered, and a month after _that_ of mandatory physical therapy. But now? He felt like he could run all over the Expo and not feel tired. He could, like Superman, leap small buildings in a single bound if he wanted.

He paused at the top of the stairs and looked out over the Expo. It was even more beautiful from up here, a humming gift to the city he loved. It had been a privilege to work on it. And now, he thought, turning away, it would be a privilege to experience it.

She stood when she saw him coming, going up on the tip of her toes like she wanted to run to meet him. Her hair floated around her like a cloud and she was wearing, he was surprised to note, a skirt and flat shoes, along with a smile that brightened the area twenty feet around her. “Hail the Conquering Hero!” she called as he came up in front of her.

“Hardly,” he said, avoiding the glances of the curious people around him.

“No, it was brilliant, Steve. This whole thing is brilliant.” She made a wide gesture around her, to the grounds below, to the building behind. “You’ve done such a fantastic job.”

“It was the team.” But he couldn’t help feeling pleased by the sparkling gaze she was bestowing upon him.

“Led by a man who even Tony Stark needs five superlatives to introduce.”

“I didn’t know he was going to shoot off fireworks!” he protested, laughing. “And I don’t even know where he dug up that song. I thought it would have disappeared decades ago.”

“What was it?”

He laughed, surprised that it didn’t sting. “My bond salesman song.”

She looked up at him through her eyelashes mischievously. “Are you going to sing it for me, Steve?”

“No. That, absolutely not. But anything else, tonight, your wish is my command.” He bowed, jokingly, and held out his arm for her to take. “Where to, my lady?” he asked as she tucked her hand in his elbow, copying her earlier gesture with his free hand. “The world lies at your feet.”

“Tonight the first thing is one of those sticks things with cinnamon and sugar on them – the ridge-y ones.”

He nodded and began to lead the way to the nearest churro stand (an import at Stark’s suggestion and one which Steve thoroughly approved of). “And then?”

She ducked her eyes as if she was watching her feet on the stairs, then looked up at him seriously. “Well, tomorrow, I thought – the Fridge.”

He stopped suddenly, and she turned on the step below to watch him. “Did you say the Fridge?”

“Word just came through this morning,” she said, unable to keep back her smile. “You’ve got clearance, and they’re willing to let you see him.”

He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or to cry or to pick her up and spin her around like they did in the movies. The Fridge! He hadn’t thought it would be possible and certainly not so soon. The Winter Soldier had done terrible things for a very long time; six months of co-operation would hardly be enough to wipe it out. “Are you sure?” he asked, and she laughed in response.

“You must think me a properly cruel person to do that to you on tonight of all nights. Yes, I’m sure. I’m to escort you there as soon as we can get transport.”

Tomorrow, then, or maybe the next day. The thought settled into him like the sun rising: tomorrow, or the next day, he would see Bucky again. And with clearance, he could go again, he could write, he could, to a certain extent, get his best friend back. It wasn’t perfect, but it was more than he could ever have imagined a year, even six months ago. He felt like shouting, like the fireworks that had gone up behind him earlier were going off inside him now. Below, Ivy was almost laughing with her own excitement. “But that’s tomorrow, Captain,” she said. “How are you going to show a girl a good time tonight?”

He gazed at her, this woman who had become his friend and champion and partner, standing there with her eyes glistening with joy just for him, and he knew, all at once, how lucky he was. He came down two steps below so that he could look directly into her eyes and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm. “I’m going to keep a promise.”

“You’ve never promised me anything, Steve.”

“Not you,” he said. “Your aunt.”

A cloud of confusion floated across her face. “Aunt Peg? What?”

He closed his eyes, remembering. They had met in the sitting room in the old folks home she lived in, all alone for 45 minutes. That was before the antidote, and Peggy wasn’t in too great of condition either, but neither of them had wanted to go. Most of their conversation was too precious for even him to think about too often. But at the very end, just before the orderlies had come in to wheel them apart, she had grabbed his hand and made him swear.

“Steve?” Ivy asked, bringing him back to the present.

“I promised,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat and managing to smile around it, “she said, ‘Steve, when this is over, I want you to take Ivy dancing.”

He felt her go very still. “Dancing?” she repeated, in a tone that let him know she understood what that meant.

He nodded, the lump now moved to his chest. “She said if I did she would forgive me for standing her up. You aren’t going to make me break a solemn promise, are you?”

Taking a deep breath, she patted his arm and smiled. “Well, I should warn you, I’m very bad at it.”

A laugh bubbled up inside him like the fizz of soda pop with the headiness of alcohol. He began to lead her down the steps again, placing his free hand over hers. “It’s okay. I never learned. We’ll just have to muddle through it together.”

 

**THE END.**


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